


Hogwarts: A History, an Addendum

by glitteringvoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dessert & Sweets, Dubious Ethics, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt Harry, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Multiple, Pining Draco Malfoy, Portraits, Secret Identity, Sentient Hogwarts, Temporary Character Death, concerning potions, it will be alrigh though, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25606978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringvoid/pseuds/glitteringvoid
Summary: Hogwarts has seen many things, has met many people. They are wonderous creatures, full of passion and longing, and Hogwarts loves watching them.Sometimes though, sometimes they get lost. They get swallowed by darkness and they never find out who they could have become, if only a few things turned out different. Hogwarts hates that, hates watching them fall.So, when she watched Draco Malfoy fall, caught between Harry Potter and the fire already reaching for him, she caught him.Draco Malfoy would get a second chance and maybe, just maybe, Hogwarts can save both of her foolish boys.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 211





	Hogwarts: A History, an Addendum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [urfavpendeja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/urfavpendeja/gifts).



> Happy birthday, my dearest, hilarious, most amazing Emily! 
> 
> I have no idea where to even start this. I apologise for how soppy it will be.  
> You are one of the best people I know and I'm positively _overjoyed_ that we are friends. You make my life so much better, I can't adequately express how much you mean to me. The closest I come is the fact that I keep talking to you despite how you make me laugh so much that people doubt my sanity and my laptop is in ever permanent risk of being drenched in coffee, one of these days.  
> Seriously, every day I talk to you is immediately made brighter. You are funny and have great taste in books, are furious at all the right people and let me rant all I want.  
> This fic is for you, because you are fantastic and I'm grateful every day that we are friends. 
> 
> A huge thank you to Jay and Cigale for beta-reading this fic, letting me rant and complain and helping me solve quite some problems I ran into while writing. Thank you, this fic would be nowhere near what it is without you!

There are places in Hogwarts that can only be found if you know where to look. Most books cite the Room of Requirement or the secret pathway into the kitchens, but they are by now so well-known they hardly count anymore. But there are myths, whispers of places that might never have existed or simply don’t anymore, places no one ever saw. Hogwarts, as is the wont of magic things, is ever changing; so are her secrets. 

There is someone, they say, wandering through the portraits, unknown and unseen, everywhere they want to be. It is said that they know every secret of everyone who lives in Hogwarts' halls, and that, if you are lucky and bring them a gift, they can tell you the name of your soulmate. 

That isn’t true. Not quite. 

Draco Malfoy would never stoop so low as to accept bribery in the form of cheap gifts he has no use for anyway, and he resents the idea of soulmates. In fact, he resents all of this, the entire situation, starting with his death. 

He never expected to die a heroic death, nothing grand in a last, desperate attempt to save his wretched soul. But to die a screaming coward in a fire created by his friend? It’s _insulting_. Even worse, no one seemed to care. People didn’t mourn him, didn’t seem to remember him at all, and if his name was accidentally mentioned, it was as one of His followers, unthinkingly loyal and blinded by hatred. 

Unfortunately, Draco could do nothing about his tarnished reputation, caught between the frames he didn’t understand how he ended up in and only slowly learning how to move between them. He was decidedly _not_ dead, but there was no one willing to listen to him, too busy celebrating their own survival. 

Draco _hated_ them. He hated how they could still laugh, how they still had their lives and could feel all high and mighty after Potter won the war for them. Draco hated how he lost everything without even the mercy of death, forced to witness what he would never have. 

Drowning in bitterness and hurt, Draco made his decision. If they tried to forget him, he would make it impossible for them. He would haunt them, ruin their perfect happy ending. Not with his own face, he couldn't bear that fall from grace (Draco never quite admitted that to himself, but Hogwarts knows) but he didn't let that technicality spoil the spirit of his revenge. 

Hogwarts almost felt joy watching him, spite and ambition urging him ever forward on his path of vengeance. Hogwarts has housed many portraits, seen them hone their skill and come to terms with this new form of life they are permitted. Draco behaved like none other she has observed. He learnt faster, more ruthless in accepting what he lost and consequently better at discovering what he gained. There are so many portraits that could never make peace with their limited existence, their souls yearning for more and keeping them caught in desolation — Draco’s success was no guaranteed thing by far, no indication that he would excel where so many fail. 

But learn he did, how to move through the frames and fade into the background; how to go completely unnoticed by those passing by; how to gain their attention when he did want it. The other portraits didn’t like it, eyeing him with barely concealed mistrust and open envy, some of them well aware of his wrongdoings outside their world. After the first scorned attempts at building a rapport with their new neighbour, they stopped trying, putting on a show of ignoring him while analysing and discussing his every move. He isn’t even supposed to be here, they say as if that alone had decided his fate. 

Draco didn’t care, too consumed by thoughts of his revenge to concern himself with anything else, let alone stuffy old portraits. He didn’t yet understand that he, too, would soon be a stuffy old portrait with manners that are at best tolerated but always belittled, everyone he once knew dead and all alone because of his youthful recklessness. Hogwarts tried to warn him, but Draco never listened to her even before his death, and he didn’t change for the better. Death solidified all his worst traits. 

Sneaking around and listening extensively, using every last minute a human would have to spend on sleep or food to instead meticulously write down and organise what he gained glimpses of, Draco started to learn Hogwarts’ people. He listened to their conversations with each other, listened to their conversations with themselves, listened to their dreams as well as their nightmares. And he wrote it all down, building people out of snippets, piece by piece. 

He only stopped when he realised he had run into a problem: what to do with all his knowledge? Blackmailing, his original, vague idea, seemed ridiculous now. After all, what could he possibly force them to do that would be more than temporary entertainment? They couldn’t give him things that would make his days more interesting and they weren’t reliable enough to provide information. It was all for nothing, no gain for himself to be found. 

He could still hear them scream and yell, could hear them cry, could hear them furiously filling the silence of insomnia. He learnt of their hopes and terrors and he came to know what they need better than they themselves do. Draco doesn’t look at them through protective glass built by sentiment, he is honest to the point of brutality. He knows that most of the students are lonely, that they are broken and struggling and that they can’t breathe inside these walls anymore. 

The war left vicious scars; such is the price of survival. Draco knows, and he wonders if life is worth it. He wonders if they would have chosen this, had they had a choice. He wonders what he himself would have chosen. 

And then he remembered that he _didn't_ have a choice, that he officially died and no one even blinked, and that moping about it is going to be no use at all. He didn’t spend as many hours learning secrets as he did to just give up at the first little sign of trouble. He was supposed to be better than that, more resilient and determined, adaptable to anything they might try to thwart him with. That is what he was taught all his life, to pursue his goals, no matter the costs. 

If he couldn't realise his plans as originally thought, he simply had to get more creative. If he couldn’t use their secrets to blackmail them, he might as well share them and see what happens. Secrets are secrets for a reason, after all, and bringing them to light always steers up a delightful mixture of confusion and shame and hurt. 

Draco was going to haunt them, one way or another. 

That is the part that makes Hogwarts sad, where she almost stopped him before he could do any of the harm he schemed. It might be nothing more than the reaction of a petulant child, not allowed to play with the others and consequently destroying the toys so no one else could play, but Hogwarts’ calling has always been to protect her people, even, or especially, from themselves. It became quickly obvious, however, that no intervention would be necessary. 

Draco made complicated plans, cross-referencing fears and hopes, pairing people with who would be best suited to their individual hurt. This was going to be the most refined form of psychosocial torture anyone had ever achieved, he congratulated himself. He would whisper weakness and insecurities into the right ear and watch the unfolding ugliness, watch them fight each other to protect themselves. It was a brilliant plan, guaranteed to work. 

It didn’t work. 

Draco watched in astonishment as his would-be opponents didn’t make fun of the other’s pain, as they didn’t use their knowledge as they were _supposed_ to use it. It happened again and again, with every pair he matched. Instead of following the plan, they _comforted_ each other, treating their pain with empathy instead of scorn. 

Draco was furious, he was raging, until he realised the screaming had become less. Human touch, he discovered, is a strong kind of magic. He watched them sleep close to each other, watched them lean on the other and seek out contact. He watched them heal, and he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at them. 

And then, when a shy boy came to him, only his second year at Hogwarts, and asked whether there wasn’t someone for him, too, Draco didn’t send him away. Hogwarts has seldom been so proud. 

* * *

Seeing Potter again is a shock. Not only does he look dreadful, but he also reminds Draco of who he is supposed to be. Draco is supposed to be everything Potter isn’t, the nemesis Potter was so determined to make out of him. He was meant to taunt and scorn and ruin his heroic life, just a little bit. 

Draco is sure that is who he would be still if he were out there. As things are though, he resembles Saint Potter more than he would have thought possible. Apparently he _helps_ people now, matching them up as long as they come asking, all his careful planning not leading to the disaster he envisioned but instead making people happier. 

It’s a different kind of success, he supposes, one his father wouldn’t approve of. Draco doesn't mind too much, might actually relish in the fact that they are all begging _him_ for advice when they used to avoid him. It fills him with pride, seeing them sleep through the nights and slowly but surely getting better. 

He doesn’t doubt life is worth its price anymore. He doesn’t doubt they would choose this again and again. 

Draco was just beginning to feel comfortable with his new role when Potter came back to destroy it all. As usual, Potter always brought out the worst in him, dragged him down until there was nothing left but the uglier spikes of his soul. It was quite simple in the end, Potter the shining embodiment of everything Good humanity has to offer, and Draco, struggling against it all. 

Looking at Potter though, they might have switched roles. Because Potter doesn’t look like Potter at all. He doesn't even look like a _person_. Potter is the picture of perfect misery. Slumped over his breakfast, he is not as much eating as hiding from the curious, more or less subtle stares form the entire Great Hall. 

Draco can’t keep the sneer of smug satisfaction off his face, not so much the Golden Boy now, is he? 

Potter looks like he doesn’t want to be here at all like he would gladly crawl back into whatever hole he has been hiding in. The only reason he is here seems to be Weasley, who dragged him through the door like a disobedient dog and firmly sat him down where Granger was already piling food onto his plate. They obviously planned this, worried over Potter’s recent hermit-tendencies. 

That’s the other thing, no one expected Potter anymore. Many returned for the offered Eight year, but just as many didn’t. For months, everyone thought Potter was done with Hogwarts, never to return. Draco, personally, had been content with that. Though even he had to admit that Hogwarts just hasn’t been the same without the git. 

And now here he is, nothing Potter-esque about the man hiding behind his hair. There is no energy to him, no joy, no spark. His hair is overgrown and neglected, his clothes rumpled and ill-fitting, his eyes hallow. 

That’s what hurts Draco the most, his eyes. Potter had stunning eyes, filled with emotion and startling in their intensity. Draco is not too proud to admit that he loved being Potter’s sole focus, those eyes fixed on _only him_. Now they are dazed, clouded, and Draco would feel physically sick if he still could. 

The one thing marking this irrefutably Potter is his scar, the only part of Potter to survive the war. How cruel, Potter hated being reduced to that scar. 

Draco wonders what he is doing back in Hogwarts; if he hoped to find something here or simply has no other place to go. 

Actually, no. Draco _doesn’t_ care. 

He doesn’t care about Potter anymore, doesn’t define himself over what the self-righteous prick thinks or does. It doesn’t worry him at all that Potter looks half-dead. Potter has his friends and he made it excessively clear on their very first meeting that he doesn’t want Draco among them. Potter’s friends brought him here, let them take care of him. 

* * *

Despite Draco’s extensive practise in denial and self-delusion, Potter had always been able to slip past his defences. Draco doesn’t know how, but the bastard managed it again. 

He looks pathetic, so miserable one simply has to pity him. Yes, that’s it. Anyone who has half a heart would worry about Potter, and through Draco’s new-found altruism he now falls into that category. Which is cumbersome for various reasons but especially because it has forced him to creepily stalk Potter. 

It seemed alright at the moment, like the only logical choice. Potter was alone, stumbling through the corridors and almost falling over his own feet — _someone_ needed to keep a close eye in case the idiot tripped and hit his head or something. Draco refuses to be responsible for Potter’s drooling death, due to his own incompetence or not. Thus, the only option he had left was to follow Potter, obviously. 

And then Draco just … kept doing it. Potter either doesn’t have anyone else to take care of him or he successfully convinced them that he is fine on his own, but somehow Draco is the only one there when Potter looks ready to fall apart. Draco always wanted to learn Potter's secrets, know what dirty laundry their Golden Saviour is hiding, but now that he regularly watches Potter’s most private moments play out in front of him, he almost wishes he didn’t. 

It’s scary, seeing Potter like that. He staggers through the halls like an echo, more dead than even _Draco_ is. He stops where the war claimed its victims and just stares, sitting on the cold floor for hours on end. Potter doesn’t make noise anymore, slinking in and out of the shadows to avoid social interaction, turning his back on the stares and whispers. He only really eats when Weasley or Granger make him, though there are plenty of people who try and bring him food, hoping this will be one of the rare occasions he eats it. 

Longbottom, for example, reliably brings what he remembers to have made Potter smile before, asking the house-elves to prepare a plate for Potter ever now and then. Lovegood brings weird stuff that doesn’t look edible, together with a crazy story or two about her dish. Girl-Weasley brings food from all over the world, exotic and adventurous, waving it under Potter’s nose and hoping the foreign smells tempt him. Finnegan, for some asinine reason, orders unholy amounts of Chinese take away — Draco doesn’t want to know what address he gives the poor delivery person, or how he manages to be there to accept the food. Thomas, lost artistic soul that he is, only ever manages to prepare something that looks fancy but is discreetly thrown away when he isn’t watching, everyone agreeing that Potter better not eat that. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter what they bring him. If Potter eats at all he makes it abundantly clear that he would rather do anything else. Draco understands; he wouldn’t feel like eating either, not with people insisting he does eat and observing him all the time like a circus animal. Draco would feel like running away, too. 

Of course, the dim-witted Gryffindors don’t understand that; their hearts bleeding as they watch their Golden Boy disappear. They never even _asked_ why Potter isn’t eating, too bull-headed to consider anything but their already formed opinions. 

Flawed as they are though, they _do_ care about Potter. And they are desperate. So, when Potter is passed out in some corner, frail from malnutrition, they do the only thing they can and force potions into him. 

Whenever Potter grows exceptionally weak, when he spends his time half asleep instead of on his walks of masochistic torture, Weasley and Granger exchange concerned glances (the kind of silent communication you learn when you spend too much time with someone) and then Granger nods and the matter is decided. Potter is fairly easy to find on those days, never too far from his bed that resembles a cave more than an actual bed. His wards allow them in without hesitation and Potter, who usually wakes at every tiny noise, somehow sleeps through the violation. 

Trust, Draco muses as he watches on dispassionately, makes people stupid. 

Love, too. There is an infinity of things that can be justified when done in the name of love. 

Like concealing certain truths to protect pride. Draco doesn’t know what Potter thinks he lives on, the few meals Weasley can convince him to eat are far from enough to sustain a grown man, but he definitely doesn’t realise he is being force-fed nutrition potions. He would _not_ appreciate his friends help if he knew, of that Draco is sure. 

Weasley always visibly hates every second of holding Potter up, angling his head so Granger can pour the potions down Potter’s throat, face grim and hand steady. They have become quite good at that, the motions smooth and easy by practice. Though they don’t like doing it, struggling with their rigid definitions of what’s good and what’s bad, trying to make this morally grey area better for themselves. It’s a remarkably insidious thing they are doing, exploiting Potter’s blind faith in them like this. 

One could argue that it’s the right thing to do, caring for a friend incapable of caring for themselves. Draco would do the very same thing for his loved ones, taking the last route available to save them. Draco just didn’t think righteous Gryffindors would see it the same way, or that they’d have the guts to do it, their usual holier-than-thou attitude shushed to make uncomfortable choices. Draco could almost admire how ruthless they are in their loyalty. 

And so, Potter spends his days in a constant state of absent-minded wandering, not going to class, not playing Quidditch, not laughing with his friends. He is avoided, called crazy and worshipped in turns. Potter is ostracised and lonely, pushing away the friends that remain and begging for the pain consume him. 

The war lives on in Potter, and Draco can’t help but feel that it’s all horribly unfair. 

* * *

Draco doesn’t like the astronomy tower. Not only does he have nothing but bad memories here, but the few portraits he can slip into are cold and draughty. If Draco had a say, he would avoid it like the plague. Unfortunately, Potter likes it up here. 

Draco has no idea why, but Potter is content to sit in his misery for hours, slowly being frozen by the hard stone floor and staring down where his mentor fell to his death. It’s a shame, the stars are beautiful and almost close enough to touch, but Potter pays them no mind. 

“Why are you following me?” Potter’s voice is a low grumble, rough from not speaking all day. Draco wonders who he is talking to, if he is trying to connect to the memories haunting this place or if he finally snapped and lost his mind. 

“Do you seriously think just because you are stuck in a portrait you are invisible? You have been following me since I came back, I noticed.” Oh, Potter is talking to _Draco!_

That is … unexpected. People don’t normally see Draco these days, not unless they want something from him, that is. Being a portrait, Draco realised early on, does make you invisible. This is _Potter_ though; Draco should have known he wouldn’t be normal; he has always been exceptional. 

“What, got nothing to say for yourself?” Potter whirls around, away from the stars and his brooding, eyes landing on Draco without hesitation. 

The moment Potter looks at him, Draco feels _alive_ again. Something lights up in him, sending thrills all through his body and making him snap to attention, his entire existence focused on Potter. Draco didn’t realise how faded he felt until Potter pulled him back. 

Potter, too, is more present than Draco has seen him since his return. The spark in his eyes is back, looking for one moment as if it never left. Draco could almost convince himself this is the Potter he went to school with. Everything is right back how it’s meant to be, Potter’s delicious anger dancing in the air between them and nothing outside of them holds any significance. 

Then Draco tries to step closer to Potter, and the illusion shatters. 

“I have to admit, I didn’t think you would notice me. No one does, these days.” Draco doesn’t know what he hoped his words would do, didn’t really think about how to approach this _incredibly delicate_ situation at all, but they only serve to make Potter close off even more. Well done, Malfoy. 

“Forgive me if I don’t pity you for that, but I’m quickly losing my patience. _What. Do. You. Want_?” Great, now Potter thinks him an imbecile. 

Draco of course never planned to talk to the git, but if he _had_ indulged in occasional fantasy, well, this is hardly what he pictured. 

Potter stands unmoving, uncompromising and demanding an answer, an explanation for Draco’s presence here. Draco has nothing to give him. 

Suddenly Potter crumbles, slumping down like a puppet someone cut the strings of. “Why won’t you leave me in peace? What more do you want from me, wasn’t dying enough for you?” 

And well, Draco knows even less what to do with _that_. Potter doesn’t _break_ — it’s a ridiculous thought given what Draco witnessed this last month, but he can’t seem to get past it. Potter just isn’t affected by the bad things trying to destroy him, shrugs them off with a sunny smile and goes on to save the world like nothing even happened. He isn’t supposed to curl in on himself when no one is looking, isn’t supposed to be alone and hurting. 

Although, Draco supposes Potter isn’t really alone. Draco is here, isn’t he? It’s probably _his_ job to make sure Potter doesn’t fall apart, so that he can drudge through a few more days. It’s just his luck that Draco has no idea how to _comfort_. 

“I promise I’m not here to take anything from you, I was simply concerned with your safety.” That wasn’t half bad, Draco is actually rather proud of finding something to say that at least won’t make it worse. 

Potter snorts, derisive and bitter. Draco _did_ make it worse. Maybe he should stop talking to Potter now. 

“Yeah, right, and I'm just supposed to believe that?” That hurts. Granted, Draco is used to Potter not believing him, one of the perks of the ‘sworn enemies’ thing, but Potter doesn’t even _know_ it’s him. Draco thought that, just once, Potter might treat him like he does other people. 

And Potter used to be so trusting, neatly parting the world into Good and Bad and not questioning that the people he categorised as Good would never lead him astray. Draco had scoffed and called it naive, but now he misses it. Potter seems to finally have learnt the lessons of cruelty and selfishness that he defied for so long. 

“Wait, I know who you are.” Potter sits up straight, eyes narrowed at Draco. Draco freezes. 

That’s not possible. Potter _can’t_ have recognised him. Draco did everything he could to disguise himself, clad in heavy robes to hide behind and careful to not give himself away by what he says. And yet Potter sounds so sure, revelation clear on his face without doing anything against the hostility — “You are the matchmaker!” 

What? Draco expected he would have to defend himself against accusations of evading death and justice alike by hiding the way he does, that Potter would somehow manage to drag him out of here and see to it that he would end up in Azkaban for the rest of his life. 

Being called something insidious and plebeian as a _matchmaker_ — Draco isn’t sure which is preferable. 

“Ginny has been pestering me about finding you so that I could get —” Potter stops suddenly, a heavy blush spreading over his face. Interesting. 

Draco has no idea what little Ginevra told Potter, but he is very appreciative of the reaction it provoked. If it weren’t for the dreadful name she branded him with, Draco might be seriously in debt to her. She gave him the perfect excuse for why he followed Potter like a concerned mother-duck, watching over his every move. Draco was simply gathering data, as he does on everyone else here, and he doesn’t even have nefarious motivation (not that Potter knows of, anyway). Potter should be impressed by his dedication to doing Good, should beg him on his knees to tell him who could mend that broken soul of his. 

_Finally,_ something good came out of this whole misunderstanding. 

“Yes, that is indeed who I am!” Draco bows, twisting his robe into a low flourish behind him for dramatic effect. It’s not easy, not at all, but Draco learnt from the best (Snape would probably vehemently protest that Draco uses his talents to impress _Potter;_ not that he can really sneer at Draco, he always thought Snape himself to spend a little too much time trying to intimidate Potter with his dark and broody appearance). 

“I am here to offer you my services.” So to speak, Draco has no idea who would be stupid enough to get close to Potter in that state that he is, viciously scratching and biting everyone getting too close. He just hopes Potter won’t ask a name of him. “Considering all you did for not only the world but our home especially, I thought it only fair that I do my part in thanking you.” 

Potter looks at him like he has gone crazy. Fair enough, strange portraits making grand promises are suspect by default, even when they don’t hide their face. Still, it stings. Not so much, Draco realises, for his own virtue questioned, but for the low opinion Potter has of himself. He clearly doesn’t like people thanking him, is at times uncomfortable and annoyed by it but never recognises it as his due. 

Potter saved the entire world, risked everything he had and even _died_ for others. And the thanks he receives is a politely averted gaze as he falls apart, whispers about his fall from glory already infesting everything. Draco can’t just allow that to happen. Potter tried to save even _him_ as if they hadn’t been enemies since almost the first time they saw each other. Draco thought for sure he was doomed, that he would die a screaming death in the flames, but Potter came back for him. Granted, it was useless in the end and Draco is sure Potter forgot all about it by now, never stopping by the Room of Requirement on his little memorial trips, but Draco remembers Potter reaching out to him, remembers his hand offered to Draco. It’s time Draco returns the favour. 

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” Potter’s face is shut down again, not interested in Draco anymore, now that he established, he is not a threat. Potter is painfully far from _fine_ ; you don’t have to be a life-long arch-nemesis to see that. 

“I’m afraid I have to disagree with that assessment.” Prim, proper and wrapped into a haughty drawl — anything to get Potter to turn back around and face Draco. He so despises talking to Potter’s back. 

“Right, and _you_ would know.” Potter, the stubborn prick, didn’t take Draco’s goad. He keeps staring out of the window, rather pointedly as if he thinks Draco is too obtuse to have gotten the hint, still trying to dismiss him without even bothering with false pretences of politeness. No class, that one, absolutely none. 

“As a matter of fact, I would. I watched you your entire life, after all. I think I'm more than qualified.” It’s true, too. Not a thing Draco would usually brag about but under his disguise and the worthy goal of getting Potter’s attention back, well, Draco likes to think this is a prime opportunity to turn his pathetic weakness into a strength. 

“Well, I _lived_ my life, so I think my opinion matters more.” There it is, Potter finally turned around, spitting mad again. It’s glorious. 

Potter is also, unsurprisingly, wrong in his judgement of the situation. Draco vaguely wonders if Potter seriously doesn’t know how close he is to falling apart or if he just doesn’t feel like laying his heart open to a stranger. He suspects it’s the former, too far into the woods to see the trees — isn’t that what they say? Potter has convinced himself that he is fine, that he _has to be_ , and so he is. Until he physically can’t anymore. 

Considering these rather dire circumstances, Draco is most likely enjoying this too much. It’s not decent, he’s sure, but who cares about decent when Potter is so delightfully responsive. 

“May I remind you of that time —” when you snapped at your friend and didn’t care that it made her cry as long as she also left? When you stared at the wall for five hours without exhibiting any signs of life? When you woke screaming and drenched in sweat from a nightmare? 

“You may not! I'm _fine._ And even if I wasn’t, some creepy portrait who apparently stalked me all my life and now thinks to have any right to tell me what to do is the last person I would trust. _Are_ you even a person? Maybe you should focus on your own problems.” Potter honestly _snarls_ at him, and despite how stupid it is, Draco takes a few steps back. 

There is something unhinged in Potter, something shook loose that makes him unpredictable. But then, Potter has always been volatile. Draco tells himself that’s all it is, just Potter being Potter. He doesn’t admit that he is scared, that he is not relieved to watch Potter thunder down the stairs. 

* * *

There are a few basic things you need to know if you want to be successful in life. The most important of them is confidence. Confidence in who you are and what you can do; confidence in where you are going. Confidence, his father told him, is what separates the winners from the losers. Confidence matters more than skills, contacts or even fortune. Without confidence, you are nothing. 

Draco, always a good and attentive student, learnt his lessons well. 

So, when Potter rudely dismissed him, he doesn’t despair. Potter doesn’t get to decide how Draco spends his time, and he isn’t going to scare Draco away like he did everyone else. He will have to try harder than that. 

Pansy would have rolled her eyes at that (possibly so hard that Theo would have warned her dryly that they might get stuck that way if she wasn’t careful) and told him to stop flirting. Or she would have called him a pining fool and laughed at him. It’s so much more comfortable, to be alone and not constantly questioned. There is no one to tease him or mock him or shove an elbow into his side when Potter is smiling and Draco doesn't notice. 

Draco misses them. When he stops moving long enough, he misses them all. 

He misses Pansy, who knows all his secrets and doesn’t hesitate to call him a moron. 

He misses Blaise, who is always the first to support stupid ideas and who made more than one miserable day better by shamelessly flirting with Draco. 

He misses Theo, who can recommend a book on anything and everything and hides devilish wit under all that neatly pressed exterior. 

He misses Greg, who makes the best pastries and Vince, who couldn’t go a week without developing a new obsession on some obscure creature. 

He misses Tracy, who allows him to braid her hair and Millie, who is determined to make the world a better place. 

He even misses Daphne, who might have never liked him but at least she had the guts to show him that clearly. 

None of them returned to Hogwarts, and seeing how Slytherins are treated by everyone here, Draco has to admit that they made the right choice. Slytherins were always scorned, and then they were faulted for isolating themselves from that, but Draco feels like it has gotten worse. Draco’s heart aches to see old prejudices perpetuated, growing stronger and more vicious with every nasty look, every spit insult. All he can do, however, is start pointed rumours and air secrets as his private form of revenge. 

He is glad that his friends don’t have to suffer through this, that they only have to come back to take their exams. He also, selfishly, wishes they were here. 

“How much longer do you plan on annoying me, then?” Potter rips Draco out of his melancholy, apparently done doing penance for innocent deaths for today. Draco has been following him for a few days now since Potter tried to send him away, and usually broods a truly impressive amout of time. 

Draco thought he’d take longer. Or maybe Draco spaced out for longer than he realised. In either case, he doesn’t know what to answer, and Potter clearly expects an answer. So, Draco does what he does best when he doesn’t know what to do but also doesn’t want to lose ground by asking for clarification — smirking his most obnoxious smirk. 

The effect is completely ruined by the stupid clothes needed to protect his privacy, he realises too late, but Draco hopes the sentiment gets conveyed. Even if not, there is nothing more infuriating than silence. 

Potter looks ready to set his portrait on fire. 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than following me around or are you just a stubborn bastard?” Potter _did_ notice him then. Of course, he did, Draco made absolutely no efforts to hide, blatantly accompanied Potter everywhere he went. Partly, as petty as it is, to annoy him — it would be a shaming comment on his skills had Potter _not_ seen him. But Potter hadn't said anything and Draco started to wonder … 

“It’s called being _tenacious_ , just so you know.” This, at least, is something that didn’t change with Draco’s ‘death’. Riling Potter up is a powerful drug. 

“No come-back for the bastard part, I see.” Potter grins, all too pleased with himself, looking for all the world as if he just defeated another dark wizard (with more style and grace this time). He hasn’t, nothing even close to that magnitude, but Potter has always been easily impressed with himself. 

“I can assure you that my parents are happily married, have been long before they got me.” It’s not lying, not exactly. They are more polite neighbours living in the same giant house than a couple in love, but they adapted to the situation. Altogether, they are as happy as can reasonably be expected from an arranged marriage. 

“Married to each other?” Potter is visibly proud of his nit-picked observation and Draco has to admit, it’s quite clever. Absurd enough to make him laugh, which shocks Potter out of his satisfaction. Shame, it suited him far better, made him look almost like himself again. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” Back to grim, hostile and worn-thin. It drags Draco down right along with him. 

“That’s right, I slyly avoided doing that.” It’s a tired attempt at lifting the mood out of the hole Potter dug them. Potter doesn’t even twitch. 

Fine, but no one can say Draco didn’t try to keep things light and friendly.

“You want to know why I’m here? Alright, I’ll tell you. Because you were wrong. Limited as my existence is, I’m still a _person_. I watched people die and I hear them scream and I do what I can to make it stop. But in the end, I’m alone. I’m alone because my friends aren’t here anymore; because I’m a stupid portrait that people only see when they have a question or want to gawk. I’m alone because no one knows I’m still here. I might just as well have died, but instead, I’m stuck here and have to witness the world moving on without me. 

“So maybe I got a little lonely. And maybe I saw that you are lonely, too. Maybe I felt like you fell out of time, same as me, not quite a part of what’s around you. And maybe” Draco stutters, this has gotten more personal than he wanted, but now he might as well say it all, pour his entire heart onto Potter and hope he chokes on it. “Maybe, I just wanted a friend.”

Draco doesn’t wait for Potter’s judgement. He revealed more than he is comfortable admitting to _himself,_ he doesn’t need Potter to stare at him the way he does. For the first time, Draco has absolutely no insight into what Potter might be thinking. He can read nothing in his eyes, sees nothing on his face. It’s unsettling. 

Confidence, his father had said, but he also told Draco about recognising when it’s time for a strategic retreat. When the losses are bigger than even the most naively optimistic outcome, it’s time to save what you can and leave before you lose anything more. 

“No, don’t! Don't leave.” Draco freezes. Checks that it’s really Potter who spoke. 

Judging by the look on his face and the arm half reaching for Draco, it definitely was Potter. There is also the fact that no one else is around. Combined, it’s convincing enough despite Potter’s momentary silence. 

The silence grows, stretches out between them. Draco waits. Potter stares. 

Did Potter want to say something or did he just want to gawk a little more? Because Draco is getting impatient. 

Well, Draco is not some animal in a zoo, caged in for the people’s entertainment. He has better things to do, more dignity than that. He takes a step back, eyes steadily on Potter, daring him to say something. 

Potter makes an aborted noise, something painfully wrenched out of him. Interesting. 

Suddenly, it dawns on Draco. Potter’s Saving People Thing. 

He used to be suaver about it, smoothly stepping in and saving people left and right. It took Draco a minute to recognise but it's definitely his saviour complex. 

Misery is endearing, renders you less of a potential threat and instead something to patronise. Hurt animals, unwashed people down on their luck — even Potter’s friends are proof of it. And right now, Draco is perfectly pathetic. Maybe all is not lost after all. 

“Look, I’m —” Potter clears his throat, looks at Draco as if pleading with him and looks away as Draco stays silent. “I’m sorry I said you aren’t a person. I had a bad day and I took it out on you.” 

Potter clamps his mouth shut again. Draco waits. He didn’t expect an _apology_ , didn’t say what he did as part of some genius scheme, but now that he got one, it’s not enough. Draco _bared his soul_ to Potter, and all he has to say is some measly _sorry_ that doesn’t even address the real problem? Not good enough. 

“Also, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you aren’t dead. Every life saved is a win.” Potter is so earnest it hurts; as if he is worried Draco might attempt to rid himself of the last pesky strings of his life. 

It’s almost funny, how the tables turned. Draco used to be worried _Potter_ would throw himself off that old tower, just sitting there and staring. He since concluded that the inevitable happened and something cracked in Potter, which left him with a fondness of melodrama performed solely for himself. It makes sense, all the best heroes have their quirks, keeps them humane and approachable (not that Potter is either of these things lately). 

And now here he stands, prepared — eager, almost — to save Draco’s soul. Like a second chance, even though Potter doesn’t know that he was too slow the last time. 

Draco can still feel the flames sometimes, dancing all around him and curling up the walls, reaching greedy tongues after Potter and his friends, after Draco. He chokes on the smoke in his lungs and hears the heat sizzle, falls into the endlessness. 

It’s too much, all too much. 

Draco doesn’t know what he has been thinking, how he got the hare-brained idea that stoking Potter’s pity for him could work out in his favour. Potter had _friends_ , and he has _projects_. Draco saw it often enough, the damsels in distress begging Potter for help and the grateful smiles he earned himself at least once a week. Yes, Potter likes helping people and cares about their fate, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to know who you are. Potter saves nameless faces and then he leaves, before it gets too personal, before they can thank him. 

Like a limping stray you collect from the streets, whom you love and care for until they are bright-eyed and healthy again. Then you give them away. Because they don’t fit into your life; because you never planned to keep them. 

Draco refuses to be a project. He doesn’t need Potter to sweep in and _fix_ him, to tell him his pathetic existence is worthwhile, all while he forsakes his own. Potter doesn’t understand and – what’s worse – he doesn't even want to. 

Draco should leave while he still can, before he gets pulled in by Potter’s charms only to break into smithereens at his walls. 

“I could … I mean if you _want_ me — I could be your friend?” Potter looks like a small child, awkward and fumbling, but hopeful, untainted by the world and its uglier truths. 

And just like that, there is a door opened for Draco, the walls parted enough to let him in. Harry Potter’s friendship, everything he wanted until it was denied to him, everything he resolutely pretended to scorn and what he mocked without mercy. 

It’s like they are both boys again, standing in robes too big for them that should become their uniforms, their roles in this school. And Draco remembers why he talked and talked that day, why he so desperately wanted to impress the scrawny kid with the green eyes — there is something deeply compelling about Potter, something that makes Draco want to stay close and learn all there is to know about him. 

Friends; perhaps they finally grew into what they needed to be for each other. 

Whatever the case may be, Draco would never forgive himself if he messed this up. There is a not insignificant part of Draco that still feels like the tiny child he was, heart fluttering and almost fainting from being overjoyed at the prospect of being friends. Life will get hard enough for that boy, sooner than he realises, the least Draco can do is embrace miracles when they are happening. Don't ask questions, don't ruin the magic.

“Harry Potter, I would happily count you among my friends.” Draco grimaces, glad again that he is completely hidden and that Potter can’t see him. That was overly formal, too overblown for anyone normal to talk that way. 

Potter grins at him — _grins_ , wide and open and happy and Draco’s heart stops for a moment — as if that’s the best news he heard all year. He should smile more often, Draco decides, and he is going to personally make sure he will. 

“What’s your name then? Or do you want me to keep calling you Annoying Stranger?” Potter is still grinning, that grin that never before was meant for Draco, that grin that he caught glimpses of before Potter saw him and his expression turned into a scowl. 

Draco isn’t ready yet to lose that grin, not after finally having it directed at him. 

“That would rather spoil the mystery, don’t you think?” A weak excuse, reeking of lies and despair, but it’s all Draco can say if he wants any hopes of staying Potter’s friend. 

The sensible thing to do would be to assume a forged identity. It’s remarkably easy. Few people think to verify who you claim to be, especially if they think of you as a dusty old portrait. What reason do you have to lie? So, they don’t even raise an eyebrow, and no one notices a thing. It’s simple, it’s elegant, it’s the perfect solution to the panic still beating loudly in Draco. 

Unfortunately, Draco is proud. He is proud and selfish and used to getting what he wants. And what he wants, what he wanted since his mother first told him of the young hero who as a reward was abandoned and lost, is to be Potter’s friend. Without pretence or wrong names. If Potter already doesn’t want him with his real name, Draco at least doesn’t want to give him a fake one. He’d rather be no one than someone else. 

“Ruin the mystery, huh?” For one moment, Draco fears that Potter will challenge him on that, will _demand_ a name. “Fine, don’t tell me then. But you better believe me when I say that I will find out eventually, mysterious new friend.” Draco can already see him thinking, rattling off names uselessly and plotting where to start with his testing. 

He’s right, eventually, he will stumble upon Draco’s name and Draco won’t be able to deny it. But eventually is so far away, a long time of being Harry Potter’s friend. 

* * *

Being friends with a portrait is odd. It’s not what Harry thought might ever happen and still manages to defy all expectations now that it did happen. He provides neither eerily insightful gossip on Hogwarts or the other portraits — sometimes he talks about the students, Harry isn’t sure he likes these stories though, everyone seems to be miserable or incompetent — nor helpful hints leading to the discovery of a new secret tunnel, or even just a small chamber tucked away somewhere that everyone forgot about. That might be on Harry though; he is not all that easily impressed by ‘secret’ places since he got the Marauders Map. 

Mainly, his new friend talks. _A lot_. 

Harry supposes it makes sense; there isn’t much else you can do as a portrait. He suspiciously doesn’t talk about himself, though, and he refuses to take off the stupid mask. Which is weird but whatever, it’s not like Harry can be overly picky with the company he keeps. It’s a little like when he used to imagine who his parents might have been and what they would have been doing that required them to leave him. Right now, his friend could be literally anyone. 

It’s surprisingly nice, the endless possibilities. At the very least, it gives Harry something to think about besides blood and war. 

“Hey, are you still listening?” his friend asks, indignant enough about Harry’s lack of participation in the conversation that he stopped his rambling. He must have said something important then, otherwise he doesn’t mind too much that Harry uses his words more as a wall to keep his darker thoughts at bay than something to respond to. 

“Of course I was!” Harry wasn’t, but there is no need to admit to that. It would only make the whole situation more awkward. 

“What did I talk about then?” He isn’t convinced, arms crossed and head tilted oddly high. Harry suspects it’s an exaggerated pout, the body language making up for the fact that no can actually see the possibly-a-pout. 

“Potions,” Harry answers, putting as much conviction into the words as he can scratch together. 

It’s a guess, sure, but at least it’s an educated one. Harry has spent long enough listening about proper procedure and ingredient storage that he feels that, were he to take his NEWTs right now without further preparation, he would pass. 

His friend grumbles something that is neither a confirmation nor a denial, so Harry thinks it’s safe to assume he had indeed been talking about potions. Harry listens a little more closely as he continues on; he might as well learn something. 

That is the most surprising thing, how much this random portrait cares about Harry’s education. He pushes Harry to write essays and read books, talks Harry’s ear off about pretty much every class he takes. He even makes Harry laugh sometimes, peppering in trivia facts and weird ways to remember the information Harry is expected to know. 

It’s nice, having someone who cares. 

Harry feels kind of bad about that thought. He already has friends who care, friends who are worried and invasive and don’t respect his decisions — this isn’t helping the feeling bad thing. They are good friends, of course, the best, but Harry still doesn’t want them in his life right now. Is that so wrong, to want some space? 

“It’s not. Though it’s ironic that you interrupted _my_ talking space to ask that question.” What? Oh! Questions asked in angry mutterings apparently still get answered. 

And such a good answer, too. It’s slightly worrisome, how much stock Harry puts into the words of a masked stranger. Concerning or not, the words are reassuring and Harry greedily takes them. 

“Well maybe I wanted some talking space, too.” _Talking space_ , it sounds even more ridiculous said out loud. Harry already feels better. 

“Is that so? By all means, the floor is yours!” It’s hard to tell, what with the cloth wrapped around his face and all, but he sounds honestly excited at the prospect of Harry being the one to talk, for once. Ecstatic, one might say. And well, now that Harry claimed that space, he has to deliver, too. 

So Harry talks as they walk Hogwarts’ empty corridors and he thinks that yes, being friends with a portrait is odd, but it just might exactly what he needs. 

* * *

Draco gets overly excited. He knows this, his father told him to turn it down, that expressing feelings is foolish it and might cost him more than he can imagine, that no one will take him seriously when he behaves like a gossiping woman cooing at glittering jewellery. His mother had some things to say about that and they disappeared for a long and serious Talk about the kind of values he was teaching Draco. His father eventually apologised, for stereotyping women and telling him to suppress his feelings, but the damage was done by then, Draco already had the image of his father’s disappointed face branded into his mind. 

It was harder after that to express his excitement, his father’s scolding figure flashing up in his thoughts and making him clamp his jaw shut, swallowing his words. Draco learnt to live with it, that talking extensively makes things better (provided he says things his father would approve of) and that there are some people, special people, who don’t mind. They don’t mind that he talks too much or gestures too widely, that he obsesses over ideas that might easily be discarded a week later. And so, Draco learnt how to dance along the precarious balance between being his father’s son (proud and stoic and his every word carefully weighed and measured) and being whoever he wanted to be, sitting on the floor in a circle of friends. 

It was dangerous, he can see that now, sees where the scales slowly began to tip until he was tangled up in fear and hated duties, until being his father’s son took more out of him than being silent. And then he was alone, nothing but hurt and dark memories to keep him company and no friends to remind him of what he else he could be.

Considering all this, Draco can be forgiven for reacting somewhat exuberantly (even by his standards) to Potter asking to be his friend, talking to his hearts content. Friends are safe, after all, and Draco longs for safety. 

“Would you, for the love of Merlin and everything holy, just shut up for _one second_?” Well, Draco _thought_ friends were safe. Perhaps no one explained that to Potter?

Draco is well aware that it’s a little naive to assume Potter will be fine with anything just because they agreed on a friendship. He isn’t stupid, he knows it doesn’t work like that. But he has seen Potter, watched him put up with Granger's lecturing concern and Weasley’s inane drivel. He accepted Longbottom’s love for plants and Lovegood's love for whimsy, actively encouraged the other Weasley in Quidditch and Thomas’ — admittedly not bad — art. Potter _can_ be a good friend, he just chose not to try for Draco. 

Draco refuses to accept that. He might be living the dream, officially Potter’s friend and here when he pushed everyone else away, but Draco knows what he looks for in a friend, and the dream is set in a rather specific frame. Potter violates the frame, barely even an hour in. 

“Already changed your mind about this friendship, Potter? Only yesterday you seemed practically eager at the prospect.” It’s more antagonistic than used to be necessary to provoke Potter, but Draco has his half-comatose state to work against. This is also, incidentally, the perfect situation for a test of their new bond. Draco can be hard to deal with, even for his friends ( _especially_ his friends, if he thinks about it) and he doesn’t want to learn the hard way that Potter isn’t up to the task. 

“I might if you insist on babbling ever singly thought you have.” Poter doesn’t look at him, keeps his walk at neck-breaking speed as if hoping he can leave Draco behind. Well, he can’t, because Draco can appear in any frame he wants and would like to see Potter’s bewildered face when he is suddenly in front of him. But the words are grumbled and Potter clearly wishes he would drop dead, even if only a little, so Draco doesn’t feel like playing games. 

“Excuse me for being happy, we can’t all be grumpy like you.” Actually, Draco likes to think he does grumpy rather well; one simply has to accept the loss of dignity that is hopelessly entangled with such behaviour. He is seldom willing to make that sacrifice. 

“I’m not grumpy,” Potter says in possibly the grumpiest tone Draco ever heard. Does Potter do it on purpose? Maybe he is testing Draco right back, bombarding him with his temper to see if Draco will still want to be here then. 

Well, Draco never shied away from a challenge and if Potter thinks he can be so cheaply manipulated, he will have to do something better than simply proving him wrong. Potter expects him to throw his hands up in defeat and proclaim him impossible, is waiting for Draco to retreat so he can gleefully wallow in his misery, bemoaning how everyone seems to leave him. Little does he know, Draco has long since made it a point of pride to defy what Potter expects from the world. He will not only bear this childish pouting, but he will also drag Potter out of it, kicking and screaming if necessary. 

“Prove it.” Two simple words and Potter stops dead in his striding. Draco can watch the thrill of a challenge bloom on Potter’s face, his annoyance forgotten in the eagerness to prove himself. 

“Just tell me how.” Potter is so sure of himself, doesn’t doubt for a second that he can do whatever Draco demands from him. And why would he, he has the most ridiculous track record of accomplishing one seemingly impossible mission after the other. Saving the whole world would make even the humblest of persons arrogant, and Potter took to it like a Niffler to gold. 

This— Potter’s expression unguarded and open, waiting for Draco to make up his mind — is a more direct power over him than Draco ever held. He grew adept at plucking Potter’s strings, true, meticulously pushing and guiding until he got him exactly where he wanted him, but this is something else. All Draco has to do now is _ask_ , snip his fingers and watch him jump. 

It’s an addictive feeling, Potter’s eyes on him without scorn and judgement, the worst he can detect the barely concealed impatience for Draco to say something. Draco could get used to this, far too easily. 

“Sing me a song.” The words are out before he realises them, and Draco doesn’t know whether he should curse himself for his foolishness or congratulate himself on this stroke of genius. 

Draco has it on good authority that he can’t sing to save his life, he hits all the wrong notes and manages to forget even the most repetitive texts. He has been told more than once that he should stop, or at the very least keep the volume down. Ironically, in that way that fate works, Draco is convinced singing actually did save his life. Maybe not in the literal sense, not in a way understood with the fleeting gaze that was the only thing his father ever had time for, even when analysing his faults, but in all the ways that matter. When the oppressive silence became too much, when it felt like all the air in the room was used up by who Draco was supposed to be. 

“You want me to sing?” Potter clearly didn’t expect that, frowning in confusion and looking somewhat disappointed. Not his usual feat of valour, to be sure, but Draco didn’t question his bravery. 

“Yes, I want you to sing for me.” Potter still just looks at him though, without any sign of understanding or acquiescence. Draco sighs, Potter really does insist on making everything more difficult than it would need to be. “You do know _how_ , don’t you?” 

As expected, that does the trick. Potter stands up straighter, a determined set to his jaw, concentration written all over his face. It suits him brilliantly, every inch the fearless hero prepared to make the oldest of sacrifices. Draco assumed, somewhat bitterly, that that person didn’t actually exist outside of the _Prophet’s_ pages, that Potter was more of a glorified soldier following Dumbledore's orders, but in this short flicker, he sees it. 

Potter begins to hum, low and hesitant and not quite what Draco requested, but he will take what he can get. Maybe Potter is shy, an absurd idea considering his stoic appearance, but Potter has become skilled in the wearing of masks. Draco can handle shyness, some more subtle insinuating and blatant challenges and soon Potter won’t be content to meekly hum — is that a _Christmas_ song? 

Potter starts dedicating himself to the song, tapping his foot to the rhythm, humming with more vigour and relaxing. Before Draco can properly appreciate the progress, something breaks in Potter and he is full-on dancing, belting out the words at the top of his lungs. 

Last Christmas, Potter is singing Last Christmas. 

Bad enough that Draco knows that infernal Muggle song, ghosting through Hogwarts those last few days before winter-break as it is, but now Potter has to go and blare that inane tune into his mind for at least the rest of this day. 

Perhaps befriending Potter was a mistake. 

* * *

“You know I hate when you do that.” Potter’s glare is not nearly as effective with his cheeks stuffed full, making him look more like a cranky hamster than a man to be taken seriously. Draco doesn’t feel remotely bad about discarding his protests. 

“I know. Try the chocolate one next.” From the entire tray of biscuits, that one looked the most tempting. Of course, they all look absolutely mouth-watering, covered with intensely coloured icing, decorated with intricate designs, refined with tiny sprinkles — Draco has been discreetly drooling since the collection was presented to Potter. 

The house-elves expect Potter by now, arriving late every Thursday (because Draco couldn’t convince him that indulgence doesn’t follow a schedule) to ask them for an assortment of whatever sweets Draco is craving the most. They were quite surprised the first time Potter let himself into their kitchen, even more so when he politely enquired if there were any tarts leftover from dinner. There weren’t, but Potter being _Potter_ meant the house-elves were so excited they insisted on baking some fresh, extra for him. He came all the way; it would be an unbearable shame to send him away empty-handed! Potter was visibly uncomfortable watching them ruin the pristine state of the appliances, but they wouldn’t hear any protest. Potter was wise enough not to argue once he was pressed into a chair and forced to drink tea during his wait. 

Watching Potter eat the tarts was a unique kind of torture. It was Draco’s idea, so he can’t really go around complaining about it, but having what you want almost close enough to touch and yet hopelessly unattainable, well, enjoying sweets was significantly easier when he could eat them himself. Instead, he now has to needle Potter every time into requesting them from the house-elves (Draco would have sooner been thrown out to the curbs than served like that, which is highly unfair considering he would appreciate their efforts far more than Potter does and never did anything to earn their resentment anyway, he just has unfortunate family connections ill-suited to sneak sweets from Potter-fans) and then further pester him for even the barest description of taste and composition. 

“Well? What does it taste like?” Draco can almost trick himself into smelling the chocolate, into feeling the crumbling of the biscuit and the velvety smooth glide of chocolate, the explosion of taste and richness of the cocoa. It’s heaven, absolutely divine. 

“Chocolate.” The fantasy shatters. 

“Never would have guessed that, Potter.” Not that Draco expected a more colourful description, Potter proved regrettably resistant to training, but it’s still disappointing. 

“All right, all right, calm down, Clarington.” Potter chuckles, tries another chocolate biscuit and eats it slower this time. Of course, he would, now that it’s not actually all that important anymore, now that Draco has something more concerning to think about. 

“What did you just call me?” Perhaps Draco simply misunderstood. It’s not very likely, and usually, it’s not what he hopes for, but here it seems by far the best alternative. 

“Not your name then?” Potter grins at him, all crooked and charming as if he didn’t just call Draco something dreadful. 

“Why in Merlin’s name would you think it was?” _Clarington_ , Potter could have chosen anything and _that_ is what he settled on?

“Well I had to try, didn’t I? You won’t tell me your name, so all I can do is guess.” Potter is not in the least bit repentant, munching on Draco’s biscuits and looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. 

“And your first guess is _Clarington_?” Draco might be overreacting here, or reacting exactly the way Potter hoped he would, but he can’t help it. He didn’t give Potter a name because he didn’t want a different one, the importance of his might be the only thing his parents agreed on immediately. Draco _likes_ his name, dedicated his life to growing into it and making it his — he doesn’t know how he feels about Potter playing disrespectful guessing games with it. 

“Not my fault you sound like you got a stick up your arse half of the time.” Potter shrugs, aiming for casual but betraying himself with the way he focuses on Draco’s reaction. This is calculated, meant to unsettle him because this is what Potter _does_ , always pushing Draco. 

“That’s not — I demand that you rescind that!” Potter raises an eyebrow in a universal, and very mature, ‘told you so’ gesture. Draco can feel the blood rushing up to his face. He really proved his point eloquently there. Potter should be proud, making Draco stumble like that. “Just, tell me about the biscuits.” 

Potter laughs at him. Draco sees red. They had gotten along so well, rather shocking how well actually, but Potter isn’t the only one who can poke at sensitive topics. Draco might have let it go, might have been willing to believe Potter didn’t realise what he was doing, but not anymore, not when he is being laughed at. 

“Say, Potter, it has been a while since you did that thing where you visit all the places people died for you.” Potter chokes on his biscuit. Serves the bastard right. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He is glaring, at Draco or the biscuit he can’t be sure of, maybe even at himself. Potter can be remarkably self-loathing. It’s concerning and ugly and Draco tried his best to help him out of it, but now he is ready to exploit it. 

“What exactly would that be? The innocent people who died everywhere, screaming in fear and agony, because you took your sweet time feeling sorry for yourself? The people who died even before that in their desperate attempts to save you? The fact that you could do _nothing_ for them in life and even less in death? Or maybe that you only appreciated them once they were dead and —” Potter stands up with enough force that Draco thinks the walls should shake, magic crackling and burning around him, waiting for something to strike at. 

Potter is magnificent and Draco can only stare, everything else forgotten. 

“ _Yes_ , that is exactly what I don’t want to talk about. Does that satisfy you? Hidden behind your mask and casting judgement on everything and everyone. You think you are so much _better_ than I am, don’t you? Well, you aren’t. You are a cruel, sadistic coward and I can’t believe that I thought you my friend.” Potter laughs, hallow and hateful. 

He doesn’t look any less magnificent for it, broken and betrayed and so used to the feeling that it hurts. 

It’s only after Potter stormed off that Draco understands what just happened. Potter was _teasing._

Draco should have realised, should have paid attention. When Potter laughed at him, when Draco finally thought himself pushed too far, there was no malice in his laughter. There was no derision or triumph or _anything_ hinting that Potter even knew how close Draco was to that edge. Draco should have listened. 

Laughter can have different effects, widely varying depending on situation and intention, a weapon or a friend. Draco would know, he spent too much time not only perfecting his own laughter (polite, sardonic, dismissing — Draco learnt to express more things in laughter than some people can say with words) and analysing Potter’s not to know that. Draco is, in his highly qualified opinion, an expert on the matter. 

So why didn’t he listen? Why didn’t he analyse? 

* * *

The thing about loneliness, Harry realises, is that it doesn’t hurt until you are aware of it. Harry was perfectly alright moping about Grimmauld, going weeks without talking to people and ignoring anyone who tried to change that. It hadn’t bothered him then, and if it had, he hadn’t acknowledged the emotion. It must have been his ignorance that saved him. 

Now though, now he isn’t ignorant anymore. It has barely been a week, a week of avoiding the concerned looks his friends shoot each other, a week of these words haunting him. That ridiculously covered beanstalk, it must have been easy for him to taunt Harry like this, to stick the knife exactly where it hurt. Harry didn’t realise he knew him so well, that he learnt this much about him in just the few weeks that they have been friends. 

Sort of friends, _real friends_ wouldn’t have said any of that to him. 

No, his _real friends_ awkwardly stalk around the issues, walking on eggshells like they fear Harry might break. They worry about him, that’s painfully obvious, but they won’t talk about it to _him_. Maybe they are trying to fix his problems _for_ him, planning to only treat him like a person again when they can present him with a solution to everything messed up with him. That would be like them, he thinks. 

Harry doesn’t know which approach he prefers. (He does know, he just doesn’t like the answer and no one is asking, anyway.) 

It has not quite been a week of ignoring his hooded-possibly-friend. The bloke has been stubbornly following Harry, slipping through portraits always a few steps behind him. If he is going for stealth he is pathetically failing, and if he hopes for forgiveness, he is going to have to do more than that. Although, if he is keen on watching Harry lose his mind, well, he might have a front-row seat to that. Madness and grief, they go together rather nicely when the reality of life is too much to continue. (Harry wonders if this is how it happens, if he has already gone mad.) 

It has been a week, and Harry is lonely. He isn’t alone, never that, but lonely he is still. He has grown used to being surrounded by excited chatter he finds difficult to ignore, used to having someone there interested in his observations and urging him to go to his classes, to not waste his future. It’s almost ironic, the only reason Harry now attends class is to avoid him; his not-anymore-friend would be proud. Harry hasn’t been constantly surrounded by so many people in a long time, even talking to some of them occasionally, but none of it changes the fact of his loneliness. None of it distracts him of what that coward accused him of. 

He was right, of course. It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what keeps Harry up at night. Survivors guilt, the Muggles call it. Harry did his research, hoped to find a cure when all it did was make him feel worse. He didn’t get far in his investigating. Even knowing he has a problem, being aware that he isn’t alright, didn’t prepare him for having someone else drag it to light so cruelly. Granted, what was said was done so with the sole intent of hurting him, it was hardly an objective truth. If such a thing as objective truth exists at all, that is. 

One thing is true though, no matter the perspective you look at it from: there is nothing Harry is doing for anyone right now. He sought to remember them, to honour their sacrifice and not let it be forgotten, but, as was so kindly pointed out to him, what he is actually doing is more along the lines of self-flagellation. No one is served by that, least of all the victims of the war. 

The paints were a spontaneous idea, an epiphany in the middle of the night that looks significantly less impressive in the harsh light of the day. Colin Creevey, he deserved better than being ruthlessly murder for daring to defend his life, better than Harry’s useless grief when it’s already too late and better than inexperienced scribbles in a clumsy attempt to remember him. 

He also deserved better than a plain wall though, all signs of his ever being here scrubbed away in an effort to move on. Colin, as much as Harry knew him, was cheerful – bubbly almost – thoughts running too fast for his mouth, and he was brave. He was too young when he died, far too young. 

Harry might not be the right person to do this, but he seems to be the only person inclined to. Determined, Harry picks up the brush. 

* * *

“I won’t pretend to understand what it is you did there.” That’s fair enough, Harry doesn’t quite know what he did either. 

He has been staring at it for close to an hour now, trying to figure exactly that out. He likes it though; it could have turned out far worse. Instead, the colours are bright, a swirling mess that, by some miracle, somehow fits together. Maybe Hogwarts helped along, rearranged some things perhaps, but Harry thinks he can be rather proud of his work. Colin would have liked it, he hopes. 

“What are you doing here?” Harry doesn’t feel like another fight with his covered acquaintance, not right now, not when he is flayed raw and vulnerable. 

“I came to —” There’s an odd hitch in his voice, like he changed his mind at the last second and swallowed his words. Harry doesn’t turn around to see if he is okay, not like there is much to see any way with all that cloth draped over him. “I owe you an apology.” 

Now _Harry_ is the one making odd noises. In his defence though, he didn’t expect that. He thought at best they might silently agree not to ever mention it again and move on like nothing happened. It wouldn’t have worked, because pretend as they might it still would have happened, but if Harry wanted to keep his friend, he thought it best not to press. And he did want to keep the moron, ridiculously disguised and with a tendency to cruelty as he might be. 

Apologies, however, Harry is wholly unprepared for that. 

“I had no right to say any of what I said, it was unnecessarily harsh. I have since realised that I … overreacted and misinterpreted some of your actions.” The apology is awkward, stilted in a way that suggests he wrote it out and memorised it and with enough trembling insecurity to suggest that apologising isn’t something that comes easy to him. Harry understands that at least, apologies are something he struggles with as well. 

“Right, I’ll leave you to it then.” Harry didn’t plan on forgiving him this quickly, on the first sign of — quite possibly faked — remorse. But he sounds so meek, rejected and resigned, and Harry knows that feeling too well to put someone through that as some form of twisted lesson. 

“It’s a memorial, of sorts.” Everything in Harry is screaming not to tell him that, not to give him more ammunition to hurt him with should the mood strike again. But then, Harry has never been particularly good at self-preservation and he genuinely wants to know what he thinks, brutally candid or not. “You were right, merciless and ill-timed, but I think I needed to hear that.” 

It’s quiet and Harry can’t be sure if his hopefully-soon-again-friend is even listening, but he might as well say it all now, bare his entire soul. “I should apologise, too. I said some pretty nasty stuff, not wholly undeserved, but mainly I just wanted to hurt you.”

There is no answer for long enough that Harry thinks he is alone again, that he wasn’t fast enough or worse, not _good_ enough. But then there is a chuckle, starting low but growing quickly into full-on laughter, breaking the tension in Harry and making him laugh as well. 

“Look at the two of us, how stupid we must seem, squabbling like this.” Harry has never heard him laugh before, let alone that gasping, barely able to speak laugh, and to know that he is the cause of it, however remote, makes him swell with pride. 

Harry finally turns around, wanting to see his friend again without feeling like he has to walk faster as a result. He is leaning against a fountain, a dark figure standing in a blooming garden and almost falling over for laughter. It looks like he belongs there, between the roses and to the old sophistication gazebos seem to possess by default. Maybe that is who he is, under all that black and insecurity that leads him to cover even the slightest hint to his identity. 

Harry realises with a sudden jolt that there is basically nothing he knows about the man, nothing of consequence. That’s by design, of course, for all he might talk he has been careful not to reveal any personal information. In stark contrast to Harry’s ignorance, his friend seems to know everything there is to know about him and even beyond that, what Harry would rather no one knows. 

“Am I forgiven then?” The words are just the right amount of coy to be called teasing, but there is something tentative in the way he asks, as if prepared for Harry to reject him. Harry wonders if he is used to that, if that is why he hides who he is, but then he realises he can do something better than speculate. 

“Not quite yet. What you said there about me, whether you just guessed and got lucky or whether you actually knew, it’s kind of a secret; no one is supposed to know.” Harry pauses, trying to gauge his reaction before going on. This is important, he doesn’t want to mess up by pressing for too much too soon. “I think you owe me a secret of your own.” 

It might not be fair, making demands like that when Harry knows how private his friend is, but on the other hand, he doesn’t even know his _name_. He thinks he deserves a little more than that, even if he didn’t know Harry’s guilty shame. Besides, _secret_ is as vague a term as it can be. Harry would take absolutely anything, that time he ate all the ice cream and blamed it on his sister or the long-hidden second name — just _something_ outside of scathing commentary and gleefully told gossip, entertaining as that might be. 

“You want a secret?” The voice is cold, far more distanced than Harry thought voices alone can express. That’s not quite true, it sounds vaguely familiar in its regal reservedness. Harry has definitely heard it before, he just can’t quite place it. 

Not that it matters anyway, people sound alike all the time. 

“Yours, specifically. I won’t accept more of your sneakily stolen insight on others.” Harry really hopes he won’t baulk at this. It’s fairly reasonable, he thinks, to ask for something back, but his friend sometimes behaves like a spooked horse, always at flight risk. 

Long, contemplative silence. A good sign, surely? Or it could mean the very worst. 

“I don’t think I used to be a very good person.” That — that’s unexpected, to say the least. Harry thought he would get something trivial, something entertaining for a moment and nice to know but not _this_. He didn’t think he would have to deal with a personality crisis! “I wasn’t a _terrible_ person, not as bad as it can get, but I wasn’t particularly good either. I think, I might never have been much of my own person. I did what was demanded of me and I didn’t question that, not until it was too late.” 

Well, this got depressing. Harry thinks he understands what he means though, too busy following the path that was set for him to ever think about whether he even wants to be on that path at all. Harry’s path brought him to this, lonely heroism and a fame he can’t escape, while his friends led him into death and uncertainty. Maybe that is the fate of those who don’t truly die, to forever question the life they can’t change any more. 

“It’s not too late though, you know?” Because that is the important bit, that is the only thing Harry feels he can say something on. “I obviously don’t know what kind of person you used to be, but I do know that it doesn’t matter nearly as much as who you are right now, who you are becoming. You can choose who you want to be, learn to be a better person.” 

Harry sounds like he is trying to convert him, convince him of some imagined wisdom that will show everyone who believes the one true way to live. It’s embarrassingly preachy and desperate, but he hopes his friend can find some comfort in his words, some inspiration even. 

“Thank you.” If his voice sounds chocked up at all, Harry doesn’t mention it. 

“No problem, Callum.” Harry freezes, vividly remembering how his friend reacted to his game of name-guessing the last time. He isn’t eager for a repeat of that, not when they just got themselves back together. 

But then he laughs, still suspiciously teary, and Harry thinks they will be okay. 

* * *

Hagrid saved his life at least two times. The day he rescued Harry from the Dursleys, and the day he rescued Harry from himself. 

When he had just turned eleven Hagrid kicked in the door to that ridiculous shack Vernon thought to hide them in, and he showed Harry a whole new world. A wonderfully bizarre, astonishing, extraordinary world, filled with magic and endless possibilities. Filled with people who liked him. 

Then Harry learnt of the price that magic holds, of all the expectations hanging over him and all he would have to sacrifice. Harry accepted it, all of it. He put up with the fame and went along every time that Dumbledore used him as a chess piece (the queen, sure, but a tool all the same) and he never, not once, questioned if the price was worth it. 

He never doubted because he _knew_ it was. When Hermione told them of some absurd fact she read, so excited that she tripped over her words, he knew. When Ron cracked some joke that he needs to explain to Harry because it relied on the intricacies of wizarding culture until Harry didn’t need them explained anymore to laugh. With every bad joke and crooked grin, he knew. When the twins invented something crazy or when Luna slipped him the newest edition of the Quibble, he knew. Even when he flew high over everything, looking for the Snitch and instead seeing only Malfoy, he knew. 

So, Harry died, for the world he loved and the friends who would live great lives. He died, because that was his fate, what Dumbledore planned from the beginning. 

Only, he _didn’t_ die. Harry lived, and the world he saved wasn’t the world he died for. 

As every mature, traumatised, unwilling hero would do, Harry hid. He crawled deep into the darkness of Grimmauld and let his grief consume him, let the guilt drag him further and further down and let his shame chase away everyone who wanted to help him. He thought the worst that could happen to him in that tomb was death, his rightful fate coming to claim its dues. He was wrong, he can see that now. 

Harry would have lost his mind, would have lost his dreams and hopes and beliefs and turned into a screaming caricature of who he was, fuelled by envy and hatred. Things worse than death, indeed. 

Until Hagrid kicked that door in as well, ignored his shouts and punches, picked him up like a disobedient kitten and carried him back to Hogwarts to be fussed over by Ron and Hermione. 

And yet it wasn't until this moment right here, that Harry fully realised how achingly alive he is again, how close to dying he was. 

“You want to do _what_?” That is a very undignified screech in his ever so poised and wannabe mystical friend. 

“Ghost hunting, do keep up. Now, do you think that hat makes me look properly mysterious and competent?” Harry pulls the hat deep over his face, donning his best impression of the sketchy hero that always appears out of nowhere to save the entire town.

“Nothing can make you look competent.” The insult is barely more than an absent-minded reflex, most of his capacity for thought probably still consumed with trying to understand what Harry could _possibly_ mean. It’s rather amusing, actually. Harry should confuse him more often. 

“It’s a Muggle thing, not sure if they simply can’t _see_ ghosts or if ghosts don’t exist at all in a world without magic, but generally people who believe in ghosts are considered, in the best case, a bit eccentric.” Hermione probably knows more about it, what the deal with Muggles and ghosts is exactly, but Harry never really considered how the overlap between the Wizarding and Muggle world, he was too grateful to get away to think about it in his new-found paradise. 

Still, it’s a rather interesting question, maybe he should ask Hermione. She’d be thrilled at his desire to learn, ecstatic about every sign of life he exhibits lately. 

“That’s stupid, just because they can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t _there_.” Yeah, Harry will definitely have to ask Hermione about it, or field the thousand questions to come on his own. 

His friend can be truly obnoxious in his enquiries, pestering Harry to go to the library and do endless research for him until he is satisfied. Apparently, the books in portraits can’t be trusted, filled only with the — oftentimes lacking, he claims — knowledge the painter had at the point of infusing their magic. It’s an endearing quality, the constant curiosity about the world around them (despite typically being connected with a whole lot of judgement already), but Harry is significantly less fond of it when has to sift through book after book because every answer brings at least ten new questions. 

“See, that’s what some of them say too, that just because you don’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there. They go on ghost hunts, to prove the existence of anything supernatural and record evidence.” Harry isn’t exactly a talented story-teller, but he holds all of his friends' attention and interest right now — this is the best time to convince him a ghost hunt in a castle full of them is a brilliant idea. Harry picks his hat up again, strikes the most clichéd ghost-hunter pose he can think of, and throws him a cocky smirk. “So, what do you think, are you up for the challenge?” 

“This is ridiculous.” Fair enough, it is, but Harry never claimed to enjoy maturity. More importantly, that wasn’t a 'no'. 

“It’s an _adventure_. Besides, _you_ are the one always urging me to stop being gloomy and live a little. We’ve done far stupider things.” 

There was that one-time Harry stole a frame to take his friend flying with him. It seemed simple enough, anyone would go crazy confined to just one place, no matter how big it is. There might be a vast collection of frames to wander through and explore, but in the end, it’s still all Hogwarts. Harry hadn’t even thought to ask how long he was trapped here, until he finally snapped one day and Harry realised what it actually _means_ , to be physically incapable of leaving, of taking a break and getting some fresh air, some space. 

So, Harry did what any good friend would do, and promised to help. Finding a frame to take outside with him was remarkably easy, no wards or charms whatsoever preventing him from taking it off the wall. Getting the current inhabitants to move was a little trickier, but a dark coat and general threatening demeanour smothered many protestations before that day. Harry took the frame and let them sort it out by themselves, making his way outside to give his friend a glance of the world. 

A genius plan, to be sure, until it started raining. 

They had been quite far by then, neither of them intent on staying close to the castle serving as a prison and astonished at how _easy_ the whole freedom thing could be. You just have to start walking. It was when Harry was foolish enough to _say_ that, that it started viciously raining down on them. 

Paintings, as Harry would soon come to learn, don’t do well in the rain. 

Spurred on by his friends frantic screaming, Harry half ran, half hobbled back towards dry sanctuary, trying to cover the portrait under his coat to protect it. They must have made quite the picture. Drenched and manic in his fear, Harry flung them over the doorstep in, he _swears_ on all things holy, at the _exact moment_ that the rain stopped. 

Just like that, a complete stop. As if someone closed the tap. 

Harry could only stare, feeling betrayed and like he should have expected that because _of course_ this had to happen. And then his friend started to laugh, breathless and relieved and one of the few wholly happy and carefree laugh Harry heard of him. It was irresistible, and soon they were both gasping for air, laughing and watching the rainbow outside. 

Another time, they nearly set the kitchen on fire. Turns out Harry _cannot_ cook a five-courses-meal, not even when imperiously directed. He still thinks it has more to do with the directions itself, rather vague and uncoordinated, than his cooking abilities, but after they made it out alive with only one burned-off eyebrow on Harry’s part and one grim game of rock paper scissors that he lost, his friend declared this to be the official version. 

And then there are the countless small stupid things that — admittedly mostly for Harry — shape their friendship and lives. He deliberately doesn’t think of those. It would mean acknowledging what he is doing, that he started to not only tolerate but _fondly listen_ to his friend's excited chatter. That he is willing to try basically anything to make him happy because, as was peevishly pointed out to him, he is kind of living for both of them. That he sleeps better when there is a portrait in the room. That he worries about how much time his friend spends with him without ever mentioning other people, really, and what he does when Harry is sleeping. That he devotes an unhealthy amount of time to think about what his friend might look like, what it would be like if he could exist outside of frames. 

Right, not dwelling on that. 

“So, ghost hunting, what do you say, Richard?” It’s moments like these, the long pauses that Harry can never quite interpret, that he really wishes the stupid mask was off. Is he pouting? Considering? Stifling a laugh? Unlikely, sure, but Harry doesn’t _know_ that, not for certain. 

“Fine, tell me how to do that.” Just what he hoped to hear. 

* * *

Draco really should have anticipated this. Potter has steadily moved through the castle, using his nights steeped in grief and guilt to make these memorials for the victims of the war. It’s a nice thought, pretty vandalism that none of the authorities seem to notice. With every painting, he gets better, technique as well as conscience wise. It was unexpectedly nice, seeing him heal like that. If Draco had kept better track of location instead of focusing all his attention on Potter, he might have realised sooner that there was only one place left. The Room of Requirement. 

Honestly, Draco wasn’t even sure if Potter would do this one. He only ever passed it briefly, in the early days of his three am wanderings, casting quick glances and hurrying on. Over time Draco came up with different explanations for this refusal to linger, that Potter either didn’t care or cared too much, that since there is no Room of Requirement anymore there is no place to stew in his many unresolved feelings towards Draco. None of them felt particularly right, more aggravating in their wrongness than Potter in his dismissal, so Draco decided that he himself simply couldn’t let himself care about Potter’s thoughts on his apparent death anymore. He already cared too much what Potter thought of him in life, and see where _that_ got him. So, Draco didn’t care when Potter didn’t deem him important enough to grimly contemplate the travesty that was his early death, and he didn’t notice when his was the last memorial left to draw. 

Watching Potter stare at the wall where the Room of Requirement used to appear, Draco thinks he might care after all, just a tiny bit. 

“This one is different?” Okay, so Draco cares immensely. Big surprise there. 

Potter shrugs, which seriously, thanks for that. Draco thought he made his peace with being so negligible to Potter, but it seems he is not only still invested but also hurt. Fantastic. 

“Malfoy and Crabbe died here. Wildfire, the idiot thought setting it off would be a good idea to scare us. Which it did, it just also took their lives.” Draco already opened his mouth to defend his friend, when he realises there is nothing to say against that. Vince had been rather idiotic, but who wouldn’t be with your entire family held hostage, the tip of a wand to their throat and the one thing that could save them right there in front of you. It was desperate, the last act of a dying man. 

“I keep thinking about it, the panic and fear on his face, begging me to take him with me. Malfoy never seemed quite human; you know. He wasn’t _not_ human, but I remember being shocked when I heard him laugh because I didn’t think him capable of it. But he was, and I couldn’t save him.” Potter sounds far away, like he is back in that room, looking at Draco as their hands don’t reach. 

Draco didn’t think Potter cared. Not like this, not beyond his obligatory responsibility as their Chosen One, not about Draco as a person. But he did and Draco, for all his observing and analysing, never noticed. 

“Anyway, today is the day, Irving!” Potter claps his hands together, the picture of a man ready to get to work.

Suddenly, Draco has enough. 

He has enough of these ridiculous names and of Potter not knowing who he is (or how to address him, Potter never knew Draco better, the person he is and what is important to him); enough of needing to watch his tongue so he doesn’t accidentally give himself away; enough of hiding. 

“It’s Draco, actually.” The words are liberating, wonderfully loud and steady in the ensuing silence. For all of one tiny moment, before the silence is pulling him down, wrapping him in doubts and regret. 

Why did he do that? He ruined _everything_ , all for his pride? He had a _good_ thing here, something he yearned for his entire life — and now he is just giving it all up because Potter said something half-way nice about him? So much for Slytherin self-preservation. 

“What?” Potter has never been the smartest in class, that’s true, but he certainly isn’t stupid. Stupid heroes don’t live long. If there was only the slightest chance that Potter didn’t understand what Draco revealed, that he could get out of his unfortunate moment of desperate honesty unscathed, Draco would deny everything and move on. He would do absolutely everything necessary to preserve their new friendship. 

But Potter fully understood what Draco said, he just refuses to accept the implications. 

In lieu of an answer, Draco does the only thing that could make this situation worse and takes off the heavy coat that shrouded him from head to toe. He doesn’t exactly need it anymore, not now that Potter knows. 

“Malfoy? But … you are dead!” Potter sounds so helpless, so confused, looking at Draco as if expecting him to have all the answers. 

Then he must realise who the friend he's asking for help is, and his face shatters. Potter stares at him in horror, the disbelief on his face slowly transforming into something uglier. 

Draco can’t help backing away, feeling like he broke something and wishing he could take it all back.

“Was this a _joke_ to you? Seeing how long it would take me to realise, how much I would tell you?” Potter’s face is twisted into a grimace, caught somewhere between hurt and the old hatred he always held for Draco.

Logical, Draco understands what he is going through. There is the shock to process, the feeling of betrayal and the slow realisation of what he shared with Draco, who suddenly isn’t his friend anymore but his enemy. Draco knew this would happen, accepted this could be the only possible way after running through countless fantasies of telling Potter and explaining himself. It was easier in the abstract, without Potter looking at him like he is a bug he wants to stomp on.

“No, of course not!” Draco tried for calm and reasonable, but he rather fears what he ended up sounding like is crazy, scrambling for a convincing excuse. 

“Well, _what_ was it? Was it a lie, all of it?” If only Draco knew. Potter clearly expects an admission of guilt, holding on to his veneer of righteous anger and waiting for Draco to fall into his own role of the despicable foe. 

Well, Draco won’t do that. He might have ruined everything, chose the most _idiotic_ time he could have chosen to tell Potter, intimate and vulnerable and no speech prepared, but he won’t simply give up. You fight for what's important, confident and self-assured, and if you lose, at least you lose with style. Draco remembers his father talking about dignified retreat and keeping face, but he also knows that keeping Potter is more important to him, that he is worth all the pain and humiliation fighting a losing battle could possibly dole out. 

“I never lied to you.” The truth, though Potter is unlikely to believe him. 

“ _Never lied_ —” Potter snorts, derisive and so unlike Potter that Draco wants to recoil. “How do you explain this then?” 

How _does_ he explain it? Cowardice and desperation, willing to accept crumbs because he knows, deep down, that he could never have the full cake. Only it never felt as pathetic as it sounds now, not when Potter smiled at him and made his heart beat faster, granted him just enough insight on how it could feel to be his friend — without masks standing between them and Draco confined to the frames holding his soul; if he was going to dream, he might as well dream big and unrealistic — to convince Draco it was worth pursuing. 

“I admit, there are some things I didn’t tell you.” That is how far Draco got in planning how to reveal his identity to Potter, concede that he could have acted more forward and hope that Potter can see clear enough to realise this doesn’t have to change anything. 

Draco should have known better than relying on Potter to stay calm, the man's temper is infamous.

“That’s still _lying_ , Malfoy. You haven’t changed at all, have you? Still a lying, spineless coward.” The words, though no worse than what Draco already thought about himself, sting. It must be Potter who makes them so much worse, spits them in disgust so clear one would have to be blind not to recognise it on his face – and even then, one would hear it in his tone. 

That is what it boils down to, isn’t it? Disgust is all Potter ever felt for him, an animosity founded on nothing but Draco's unbalanced introduction in that robe shop, caught between excitement and wanting to make his father proud. The result was less than stellar, and Potter didn’t grant him a second chance. Things were decided after that, and Draco wasn’t even human anymore to him, Potter said so himself just minutes ago. 

It doesn’t matter that Draco was Potter’s friend, that he pretty much single-handedly got Potter out of his depressive slump — Potter doesn’t forget, and he certainly doesn’t forgive. Not for the likes of Draco, not when he already decided someone is evil.

Draco might as well live up to his reputation.

“A coward, am I? At least _I_ had the courage to tell you to your face when you were killing yourself! Unlike your so-called _friends_.” Draco watches in satisfaction as Potter flinches at the vitriol in his tone, face scrunching up in confusion as he contemplates the implications of what Draco said. 

“What do you mean?” Always so willing to trust the bad guys; sometimes Draco really doesn’t understand how Potter survived as long as he did. Well, Draco isn’t going to complain, not when Potter makes it so easy for him. 

“You truly don’t know? I thought for sure you must. How does one not notice _that_?” Of course, Potter didn’t know. Say what you will about Granger and her Weasel, but they are careful, and they went through great pains to make sure Potter would never ever know and bruise his precious ego. 

Too bad they didn’t think to check the portraits. 

“What are you even talking about, Malfoy?” Potter has absolutely no patience to appreciate the dramatics of a rhetorical build-up, but that’s alright – Draco holds all the strings now, and he can make Potter dance with a few well-chosen words. 

“Potions, Potter. I’m talking about the potions your _friends_ shoved down your throat when you were sleeping.” There, Potter wanted the truth, now he has it. 

Draco watches him stumble back as if punched in the gut, trying to fit what Draco said to the glorified picture he has of his friends. He is failing miserably, and Draco delights in watching him. 

“No, they wouldn’t —” As charming as Potter’s mumbling denial is, it’s not what Draco wants, not the pain Potter deserves for making Draco hope before cruelly snatching it away over a name. 

“They drugged you and never bothered to tell you. You didn’t need to know, after all.” Draco pulls out every trick he knows, the blasé taunts and haughty drawl, everything aimed to rile Potter up and make his skin itch, fingers twitching to tear something apart. 

“No …” Still in denial, but he isn’t fooling either of them anymore, not after that dying-whale noise he made. 

“Ask them, if you are so sure I’m lying. If you aren’t scared of the answer.” _This_ , this is where Draco wanted him, exactly what he was pushing for. Potter has fallen somewhere between hurt and confusion, doubting his friends on nothing but Draco’s word. 

“I think I know now why you are so obsessed with my friends — you don’t have any of your own left. They all _abandoned_ you, because they were smart enough to know they aren’t wanted here. But you always needed to learn everything the hard way, didn’t you? You should have stayed dead, Malfoy.” The words are pressed out in anger, meant to wound Draco where Potter knows it will hurt the most. 

Knowing this doesn’t shield him. The words land true, pierce his heart and flay him open, just like that. 

Potter doesn’t even stay to watch, turns away and stalks off with his head held high while Draco drowns in his own blood. 

This is why he wore the mask, why he should have stayed far away from Harry Potter. Potter holds Draco in the palm of his hand, tiny and insignificant, only able to stomp his feet and hope it’s hard enough to hurt before Potter crushes him in his fist and throws him away like a discarded toy he never wanted in the first place. 

Draco thought being a project for Potter to fuss over and fix would be the worst possible outcome. 

He was wrong. This is worse. 

* * *

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry is startled out of his brooding by Luna, settling against him and joining him in glaring out into the courtyard. Luna, he realises, makes it immediately impossible to be in a foul mood. 

“There is nothing to talk about, I’m perfectly fine.” A lie, of course. Wondrous as Luna maybe, even she can’t just smile away the darkness that seems to stick to Harry lately. Although, one never knows with her, maybe it’s simply a matter of giving her enough time. 

“You don’t have to lie, Harry, it’s quite ineffective with the Blibbering Humdinger all over you.” With anyone else, this might be a thinly veiled attempt to make Harry talk after all, press to him to confess to things he would rather ignore until they go away. Not likely to happen, sure, but so much more satisfying than letting Ron and Hermione examine every last detail and quarrel over how to best solve the disaster that is his life. “Besides, you always shine when you think of Draco.” 

It’s said in that same musing, vaguely factual tone that Luna says everything in, so utterly unobtrusive and natural that it takes Harry a few moments to realise _what_ it is she said. When he finally does though, he does so with a jolt not even words laced with a sedative could have saved him from. 

“Malfoy? No, I wasn’t — Why would you say that? What do you know about him?” Harry, to his dismay and shame, is not very subtle in his panic.

Once upon a time, he was better at this whole secrecy thing. He likes to think that during Sixth year especially, when his every thought was eaten alive by the git and his murderous plans, he perfected the art of thinking about Malfoy without letting the whole world know. He might be a bit rusty. 

At least Luna doesn’t tease him; she just laughs her airy and delighted laugh and feeds the flowers. 

“I know nothing he didn’t already tell you himself, no need to be jealous.” Apparently, Luna is going to tease him after all, throwing him a wink and a smirk, going in a completely different direction than any of his other friends would have. She is spectacularly missing the mark, of course — actually, no, she is not as wrong as Harry would like her implications to be. 

“So, you know Malfoy isn’t really dead and has been wandering through portraits this whole time?” This, Harry reminds himself sharply, is what they ought to focus on. Not that Luna thinks he does something ridiculous as _shine_ when he thinks of that wanker, or that he would be jealous. 

Luna doesn’t understand the importance of getting the conversation back to how Malfoy exploited his trust, though. She merely nods, as if that’s all there is to that, and doesn’t follow his polite cues to start with her own complaining about Malfoy's behaviour. 

“And you are just … okay with that?” Luna sometimes needs to be poked quite insistently to get a straight answer, and Harry is determined to get one. 

“Hogwarts has her reasons.” Well, that is about as helpful as _God works in mysterious ways_. “Are _you_ not okay with Draco being here?” 

That feels like an accusation, somehow, a gentle question that despite all its innocence makes Harry feel bad. Because no, Harry is _not_ okay with that, and he hates having to admit that to Luna, who could turn out to be actual angel and Harry wouldn’t be surprised. 

“He lied to me.” Harry sounds like a petulant Fourth grader. Wonderful. He felt so righteous in his anger before — what happened to that? 

Luna doesn’t judge, or if she does, she does it silently, but she hums in consideration and gives Harry time to search for his wrath. 

“Can’t you see why?” Oh, Harry sees all too well why Malfoy lied, it’s what he always _does_.

“What, he wanted to test how long he could fool me?” Still sounding like a kid throwing a tantrum, this is not going anything like Harry planned. 

“No, you idiot.” Harry would protest, insist that he is no idiot, thank you very much, but one doesn’t argue with Luna. She also sounds fondly exasperated instead of genuinely insulting, so Harry lets it slide. “Draco didn’t want to lose his friend.” 

He — what? That doesn’t make sense. Malfoy has friends, minions to do his every bidding and smirking snakes just as haughty and pretentious as him. He and Harry are certainly _not_ friends. 

Except, none of them came back to Hogwarts. Now that he thinks about it, Harry does remember worrying about how his new friend (Malfoy, this whole time) could spend all his time with only Harry. And, of course, there was his confession, the one about being lonely, the one that broke Harry a little even when he thought he could not be broken further. 

Oh, Harry might _really_ be an idiot! 

Malfoy has been terribly transparent in his loneliness, a trait Harry thought courageous and painfully familiar in the mysterious stranger but that must have been mortifying for the proud pure-blood in Malfoy. Just yesterday Harry would have argued that there is nothing more to him, a smaller version of his father — but Malfoy has always been more than his father wanted, hasn’t he? 

Harry thought he knew him so well, his slick smirks and poisonous tongue, could predict the words of contempt he would spit and what he would eat for breakfast. Yes, Harry thought he knew all there was to know about Malfoy, more than anyone could ever _want_ to know about so unpleasant a person. 

Now it would seem he only knew what Malfoy wanted him to know, barely enough so they could both play their respective roles without pain. And it makes sense, because isn’t that what Harry did, too? 

Harry presented the world, especially Malfoy, with what they wanted to see: the strong Gryffindor who might not rejoice at his fate but accepted it nonetheless, a loyal friend and standing up for what is right. Harry built himself a character he was comfortable performing, someone he could exist in while being who the world needed him to be. It stands to reason that Malfoy would have done the same, centuries-old ancestry weighing down on him and his father’s expectations pushing him further and further. 

_Draco didn’t want to lose his friend_. And they really were friends, weren’t they? 

Malfoy made him laugh, coaxed him to eat an awful amount of divine sweets and was there when Harry needed someone but couldn't ask. It was Malfoy who showed Harry that saving the world was worth the pain, that there is healing after the war, that just because he doesn’t want to surround himself with people doesn’t mean he has to be lonely. That it’s okay to grieve, okay to break apart once in a while, that what is matters is that he gets back up again. 

Malfoy was him a better friend than Ron and Hermione, forcing him into survival with their potions but leaving him to struggle with life on his own. 

“Can I ask you something, Luna?” Because if there is someone who knows how to deal with people that treat you like a basket-case instead of a person, it’s Luna. “If your friends thought they knew what you needed better than you did, if they forced you to comply with their version of healing and living without giving you a fighting chance, if they treated you like something fragile that can’t make independent decisions — would you still want to be their friend?” 

Surely the answer must be no. Surely, after they broke Harry’s trust like that, he would be justified in never wanting to see them again. 

They _hurt_ him, worse than he ever thought they could. It’s not even the potions — though that was dubious at best, Harry can admit that he didn't take the best care of himself — it’s the secrecy. The patronising. The manipulation. 

Is that how they see Harry now? A task to make sure he keeps breathing, an unpleasant afterthought because his death would look bad in the papers? 

“You were very ill, Harry.” That isn’t actually what he asked. He didn’t think _Luna_ of all people would brush him off — “You were ill, and nothing they did seemed to help you. They were scared, and humans do stupid things when they are scared.”

Fear, Harry has seen often enough what it does to people. It drives them to do impossible things, desperate things. It makes them cling on to what's important, they hold it with everything they have and hope it’s enough so they can keep it. 

Harry has seen it all before, it’s true, he just didn’t think _he_ would be held like this. 

“They love you, Harry, don’t be too harsh on them.” Luna pressed close next to him is the only thing grounding him, his mind off somewhere making sense of this mess, viewing the past months, again and again, always reaching the same conclusions. 

He needs to have some very serious talks. 

* * *

Potter talked to his friends. Draco wanted to stay initially, wanted to see the catastrophe _that_ conversation would be, but in the end, he didn’t dare. He wasn’t welcome, he never had been in the first place, but Potter knew what to look for now. Draco would rather avoid being thrown out again. What was it Potter called him, a lying spineless coward? Draco supposes this proves him right. If he needed any further evidence, that is. 

Besides, Draco doesn’t care about Potter anyway. He doesn’t want to know how Potter came to forgive them (and forgive he did, they are all laughing and sitting together and happy — it’s revolting, really) and he certainly doesn’t want to know if he told them about Draco, about a friend helping him through his dark days or an old enemy lurking in Hogwarts’ portraits. 

No, Draco is quite done with Harry Potter. He hoped twice, offered up his heart and soul and extended his hand for Potter to take, and all he got for his efforts were cold words and scorn. So, Potter doesn’t want him, tolerates him maybe if he doesn’t have to acknowledge who Draco is and can call him by ridiculous names in turns meant to insult and amuse. Draco might have been pathetically pining after the man for most of his life, but he does have his pride, battered and bruised as it is, and his pride is telling him he deserves better than that. There are only so many times Draco can let himself be rejected before things tip from determined to delusional. 

Draco doesn’t _need_ Potter, it’s high time he remembers that. Granted, his life mostly consists of advising people about the friends they keep (ironic, isn’t it?) and being expected to present everyone with their perfect soulmates (as if soulmates just fit together like puzzle pieces, as if they don’t require work and willingness and pure stubborn refusal to let go) but that is still a life he has. On his own. Without Potter. Because he is his own person, always has been, always will be. 

Right. 

Which is why, when Potter suddenly stands in front of him and stares him down, Draco does the sensible, mature, and independent thing – he runs. Because he doesn’t need Potter’s opinion, he didn’t ask for it and he doesn’t care for it and he is not going to do this to himself again, not this time. 

In an entirely unexpected twist to their entire dynamic, _Potter_ follows _him_. Draco almost stops out of pure shock. That is not what usually happens, not how their story is supposed to. _Draco_ is the one forlornly trailing after Potter, begging for scraps of his attention and taking what flimsy connection he is granted. No – Draco _was_ that person before he decided to have some more self-respect. (Fleeing in panic and sprinting past bewildered portraits, he thinks the respect thing needs a little more work.) That was meant to _end_ their relationship, no more taunting or torment with what will be denied to him over and over. Instead, Potter seems determined to make a spectacle of Draco yet again — maybe as the infamous ‘one last time’? 

“Malfoy, stop!” Draco stops. He doesn’t know _why_ — he certainly didn't intend to — but he stops at Potter’s shout. (He has more than _a little_ work that he has to do for his self-respect, it seems.) 

Potter looks as startled with Draco’s compliance as he himself feels, but Potter recovers faster. 

“You are an idiot, you know that,” Potter says as if that’s a completely normal, socially acceptable thing to just throw at people. Well, maybe it is if you are Potter and can do no wrong no matter who you insult (not that Draco is someone you need to be careful about angering anymore, but he doesn’t dwell on that). Besides, it’s not the sentiment that surprises him, just the bluntness of it. Draco thought there might be a bit more idle small talk before they got to the barbed remarks and reasons why Draco should crawl under a rock and preferably stay there. 

“I talked to my friends about the potions you so helpfully mentioned. They were trying to help, Malfoy, and they hated not being able to tell me. Did you know that, that they hated themselves a bit? Trust is shaky right now, but we’ll move past this. We made a few pacts and promises, I’ll forgive them eventually.” Potter sounds like he is trying to _reassure_ Draco, which sits in stark contrast to the taunting quality the words themselves hold. Is he here to mock Draco for his failed attempt to ruin his life or did he want to make sure Draco had only the highest opinion of his oh so noble friends? 

“Good for you, Potter, fantastic news. I was very worried, of course. Now, if I may —” Draco makes to move away, escaping while Potter is still patting his own ego. 

“I’m not good at this, okay?” Draco stops. This is really an awfully inconvenient habit he has there, scrambling at the smallest crook of Potter’s finger. “I’m still angry with you, which doesn’t make this easier. But I understand why you did it, why you lied to me.” 

“ _Technically_ I didn’t lie.” It’s a ridiculous point to insist on, so clearly debatable (if one is generous; lies by omission are a commonly accepted fault Draco can be accused of) but it’s the only thing Draco is certain Potter said. 

Plus, it’s likely to send Potter in rage again, then he can storm off and Draco can revisit the lessons on self-respect he evidently skipped in his youth. 

Potter doesn’t throw a tantrum. Instead, Potter _smiles_ , a charming crooked thing that means it’s genuine and somewhat insecure and also means that Draco can still read and catalogue Potter’s smiles. He isn’t sure any of this a _good_ development, except for the undeniable blessing that is Potter smiling.

“Yeah, you did, but I understand why you did it now. And that I was something of a prick to you, I understand that too.” Potter isn’t quite looking at him, eyes shifting away and hands nervously fiddling with seams and the hair laying over his neck. It’s endearing as much as it is unsettling, to see Potter stumble and try for Draco. 

It’s too good to be true. What, is Draco expected to just believe that Potter had an _epiphany_ and is suddenly more willing to see Draco as something else than an evil ball of slime and baleful intentions? Potter doesn’t change his mind, he is stubborn and entitled and his good opinion once lost is lost forever (Draco might have stumbled upon a few Jane Austen books in these horridly dull fake libraries and read them out of desperation, but he recognises a good line when he reads it). 

“An astonishing revelation you had there. I seem to remember you telling me I should have _stayed dead_ though, so forgive me if I remain sceptic.” Yes, Draco is still hurt by that. Potter at least has the good grace to wince and look ashamed. 

“I shouldn’t have said that, I was angry. I apologise.” Potter finally looks at him again, green eyes wide and earnest as he practically _pleads_ with Draco. 

The worst thing is: Draco _wants_ to believe him. He wants to believe that Potter just acted out in a stressful situation, that the barbs Draco meant to hurt him with did what he hoped and that Potter lashed out at whoever was closest. He wants to believe that Potter doesn’t actually want him dead. He wants to believe that they could go back to what they were, that they could be friends. 

Naivety, the blind willingness to believe that everything will turn out for the best, completely ignoring the odds blatantly stacked against them. Draco never thought he would fall prey to that particular evil. 

“Are you going to say anything or just stare all high and mighty at my totally reasonable flare of —” Draco cuts him off before he has to listen to whatever terrible way Potter justified his petulant anger with. “Prove it then, if you are really that sorry.” 

It’s the perfect solution, if Draco may say so himself. Right now, Potter is _desperate_ to make amends. It might be enough for Draco’s pathetic heart to hear his apology and gaze into his stupid eyes for hours, but thankfully he doesn’t have to rely on that. Draco has years of experience in denying his heart, this is too golden an opportunity to let go to waste. Draco could ask anything of Potter, and the fool would do it. 

“What would you have me do?” Potter immediately stands taller, posture impeccable as he awaits his orders. Draco barely suppresses the devilish smirk he has more than earned, it would do him no favours to make Potter suspicious. 

“Nothing simpler than that. I want to be free, Potter.” Potter frowns at him, looking like a confused Crup. Draco refuses to be charmed. “Destroy my portrait.”

Potter looks taken aback, politely phrased. He clearly didn’t expect that, neither Draco’s sudden yearning for his life back nor the drastic measures he is willing to take to get it. 

“And you think that is safe?” Potter clearly has some doubts. That won’t do at all. 

“Absolutely sure.” He isn’t, not even close to convinced. But supplying Potter with his own doubts is not going to get him anywhere, except to a self-important saviour thinking he does the right thing in denying Draco. 

If there is even the slightest chance Draco could get harmed in the process, he is sure Potter would insist on finding a different way. It’s that requirement to save every single person he imposed on himself, the guilt that sometimes still keeps him up at night. Draco can’t have that crossing his plans. He thought about this, more than Potter knows, and destroying the restricting frames is the only thing with even marginal possibilities of success. He did his research, calculated the risk, and made his choice. Potter doesn’t need to know about the countless ways this could end in his death instead of his freedom. 

“So that is what it takes for you to believe me?” Potter is still anxious, not sold on the idea yet. Draco could throttle him; he has no patience for Potter's tedious doubts. (Draco doesn't think he can resist him that long.) 

“Yes, Potter, do this for me and I will believe and accept your apology.” A small price to pay for his life back, a necessary concession. 

Potter will get him out of here (or kill him, in which case it will hardly matter anymore) and then they never have to interact again, Draco can seal his stupidly hopeful heart away into an iron-clad box and walk away with as much of his dignity intact as is possible at this point. Draco isn’t giving in to Potter’s pleading or his own desire for their friendship back, he is executing a cunning plan to save himself. Remembering this will be important, especially if Potter keeps smiling at him like that. 

“Done, let’s get your skinny arse out of there, Malfoy.” Draco clings to his plan and refuses to acknowledge the blush he can feel breaking out all over his face. 

* * *

Harry had half hoped they would have improved security measures after the last time he stole a frame of the wall. They hadn't, and a selfish part of him is glad. It's the same part that didn't tell Malfoy about his concerns, that he doesn't know for sure if this will work. 

If Malfoy knows this could just as easily kill him as free him, he would be scared, terrified even, and he would have to reconsider. Harry might have misjudged Malfoy for most of his life, but he was absolutely right in one crucial thing: Malfoy isn't a brave man. If the risk for an actual life is ultimate death, Harry is certain he would rather continue as he has, wandering in that twilight between life and death, too afraid to reach for what he yearns after. 

So, Harry made the decision for him. It wasn't easy and it certainly isn't fair, but Harry truly believes this is best, not only for his own selfish desires. 

Since the moment Malfoy first asked the idea has been lodged in Harry’s mind. He thought long and hard about how to free Malfoy from his confines, asked Hermione to do some research and asked Ron if something like this was attempted before. All he got for his troubles were concerned looks though, and the very firm recommendation to leave the portraits be, unless he wants to wipe out the last echoes of their soul. Disappointing, to be sure, but not surprising. 

In the end, Harry decided that destroying the portrait that is keeping Malfoy is indeed their best chance. Harry hopes that, since Malfoy didn't come to his existence the traditional way, his magic isn't interwoven into the fabric of the canvas and is consequently not bereft of his last tether to their world without it. It’s all speculation and despair though, Harry has nothing to indicate this will help Malfoy in any way, not even if it’s done by burning to increase the dramatics. Well, Malfoy is fascinated by the fire, so maybe that one is the only thing Harry can be sure of. 

Last chance to tell Malfoy. 

He deserves to know, Harry doesn’t deny that, of course, he deserves to know. But on the other hand, there are things you don’t _want_ to know. Really, all Harry would accomplish is foist the burden of this decision onto someone else, someone who, frankly, wouldn’t be able to make this choice. Who would be petrified by it and stare like a deer in headlights, unmoving as doom approaches? Isn’t it better, _kinder_ , to take this weight off of them? 

Granted, Harry will never forgive himself if this ends up killing Malfoy, but suspending him into a state of constant indecision and longing just because he was too much of a wimp to spare him that pain is worse. No, Harry can do this for his friend, he won’t torture him like that. 

“I suppose this is time for goodbye, then?” Just in case, the nasty little voice in the back of his mind whispers, just in case you are sending him into his death. 

“Don’t be stupid, I’m not going anywhere. If anything, it’s time for a proper greeting as soon as I’m once again in my body.” There is an oddly subdued quality to Malfoy’s smile — he doesn’t look like a man about to embrace life. 

That’s probably fair, all the conviction in the world doesn’t change the burning fire Harry is about to shove Malfoy into. 

Fire again, funny, how these things sometimes play out. Harry would ask Malfoy if he noticed the parallels, if he perhaps even orchestrated it this way, but Harry doesn’t want to draw attention to it in case he didn’t realise it yet. 

“Yes, you are right. How silly of me.” Except that it isn’t, not knowing what Harry knows. Going by the frown on Malfoy’s face, he sees right through Harry’s stumbling attempt at bravery. 

“Are you sure you are alright, Potter? I know this is a lot to ask.” Malfoy sounds so earnest, so honestly worried — it’s a rare look on him, his vulnerability worn open for all to see. Harry is overcome with a wave of fondness at the sight, so strong it nearly knocks him over. 

Malfoy _trusts_ him, or he never would have revealed himself, would never have talked to Harry again after their fight It’s time to prove himself worthy of that trust.

“Perfectly fine.” Harry smiles, too bright for the occasion. “See you in a moment, Malfoy.” 

It’s goodbye, not in so many words but Harry can’t let him go without. Just in case. 

Malfoy opens his mouth as if to say something — maybe a goodbye of his own, maybe he changed his mind, maybe has last words he needs Harry to hear — but he closes it again without saying anything. He simply nods, posture rigid and face set, every inch the haughty pure-blood ready to take on the world. 

Harry grabs the frame, lifts the portrait, waits for a protest that doesn’t come, and throws Malfoy into the fire. 

Harry watches the flames lick up the canvas, sees the panic flash over Malfoy’s face, and he hopes he did the right thing. 

* * *

Privately, Hogwarts had almost given up on them. Some people just don’t meet, no matter how much they could improve each other’s lives. Soulmates pass by one another and they never even know. People who could have been the best of friends but started on the wrong foot and could never again see each other in a positive light. It’s tragic, but it happens. People can be remarkably insistent on judgements made in split seconds — Hogwarts has never understood it. 

It has been a long time since she last dared to meddle with human affairs, interfering with fate to push them together again and again. It’s always risky, defying such powerful entities, but Hogwarts believes in love and friendships, and enough is enough. As long as they live on her grounds, they are hers to care for — she takes that responsibility very seriously. Those boys needed each other, needed each other so dearly. Hogwarts watched them suffer and she watched them hurt, and every time she brought them together, they made it worse, tore each other apart more. 

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, Hogwarts watched them dance and bleed and yet never letting the other go. 

And then she watched Draco fall, she watched the agony on Harry’s face and watched their hands, finally reaching for each other but not quite connecting, a little too far apart, a little too late. Hogwarts watched it all, and she refused. She wouldn’t let them end like this. 

Hogwarts saved Draco, caught him in his fall and tucked him away in the deepest pockets of herself. 

She was so sure she had saved them both. But then Harry didn’t return and Draco struggled and Hogwarts was reminded again why it’s unwise to get involved. The future might be a vague, nebulous thing, but it’s not for her to manipulate. Everyone is responsible for their own fate; all Hogwarts can do is watch. It hurts too much to fail. 

With that familiar realisation sitting coldly in her mind, Hogwarts didn’t think they would ever get here. 

“Potter! Give me back my hat!” Draco isn’t honestly upset, of course, and Harry knows that as well as Hogwarts does, smiling brightly at him. 

Muggles have this tradition — Hogwarts has witnessed it many times now — of throwing their graduation caps into the sky and laughing after them. Not even Draco is immune to that charm, and soon he is laughing as well. In this case, it might be more Harry that makes him laugh, he has that effect on Draco. Hogwarts loves watching them these days. 

It was difficult at first, when she released Draco back into the world and he stumbled right into Harry’s arms and they both had to deal with the physical reality of their friendship. Their friendship in general struggled with a bit of a rough start, Draco made it about a week of ignoring Harry's increasingly desperate attempts at talking to him by burying himself in his studies. Then he finally declared that having Harry at his beck and call might not be the worst thing and was defenceless against the bright smile Harry gave him in response. 

They went from hesitant touches to purposeful ones, to embraces and cuddles and diligent playing with each other’s hair; went from two beds to falling asleep draped over each other on the couch before conceding to just one bed; went from silent wishes and yearning gazes to soft kisses dropped on noses and foreheads, traced over hands and scars and finally landing on searching mouths. 

They are good for each other, just as Hogwarts knew they would be. Watching them cling to each other, looking towards a future uncertain in everything but their company and love, Hogwarts knows she did the right thing. This was well worth the risk and doubts, the heartache and worries. Humans, after all, are wondrous creatures and even the most stubborn ones can be persuaded into happiness. 


End file.
